I 


m 
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1 


v 


WILL  H.LOW 


Ay,  now  am  I  in  Arden ;  the  more  fool  L" 


YOVLIRE 


IT 

APLEASANTCOMEDY 


BY  WILLIAM 
SHAKESPEARE 


Copyright,  J899 

BY 

DODD,MEAD 
&  COMPANY 


THE   UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


FRANK  J.  HECKER,  ESQ. 

* 

A  book  of  Shakespeare's  time  was  not 
complete  without  an  inscription  to  a 
noble  patron  of  the  arts  and  letters. 
This  little  book  has  slight  resemblance 
to  the  ponderous  folios  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan period,  but  it  still  remains  a 
pleasant  custom  of  the  book-maker  to 
place  the  name  of  a  friend  on  a  dedica- 
tory page.  Following  this  good  custom 
permit  me  to  place  your  name  here  and 
inscribe  to  you  my  work  in  this  book. 
October,  1899  "WlLL  H.  LOW 


DRAMATIS  PERSONAL 


DUKE,  living  in  banishment. 
FREDERICK,  his  brother,   and  usurper  of  his  do- 
minions. 

j^^  }  lords  attending  on  the  banished  Duke. 

LE  BEAU,  a  courtier  attending  upon  Frederick. 
CHARLES,  wrestler  to  Frederick. 

OLIVER,     ") 

JAQUES,       f  sons  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Boys. 

ORLANDO,) 


TOUCHSTONE,  a  down. 

SIR  OLIVER  MARTEXT,  a  vicar. 

shepherds. 


SYLVIUS, 

WILLIAM,  a  country  fellow,  in  love  with  Audrey. 
A  person  representing  Hymen. 
ROSALIND,  daughter  to  the  banished  Duke. 
CELIA,  daughter  to  Frederick. 
PHEBE,  a  shepherdess. 
AUDREY,  a  country  wench. 

Lords,  pages,  and  attendants,  &c. 

SCENE:    Oliver's  house;  Duke  Frederick's  court; 
and  the  Forest  of  Arden. 


SCENE  /—ORCHARD  OF  OLIVER'S  HOUSE 


Enter  ORLANDO  and  ADAM. 

Orlando.  As  I  remember,  Adam,  it  was 
upon  this  fashion :  bequeathed  me  by  will 
but  a  poor  thousand  crowns,  and,  as  thou 
sayest,  charged  my  brother,  on  his  blessing, 
to  breed  me  well:  and  there  begins  my 
sadness*  My  brother  Jaques  he  keeps  at 
school,  and  report  speaks  golderily  of  his 
profit:  for  my  part,  he  keeps  me  rusti- 
cally at  home,  or,  to  speak  more  prop- 
erly, stays  me  here  at  home  unkept ;  for  call 
you  that  keeping  for  a  gentleman  of  my 
birth,  that  differs  not  from  the  stalling  of 
an  ox  ?  His  horses  are  bred  better ;  for, 
\ 


besides  that  they  are  fair  with  their  feeding, 
they  are  taught  their  manage,  and  to  that 
end  riders  dearly  hired ;  but  I,  his  brother, 
gain  nothing  under  him  but  growth;  for 
the  which  his  animals  on  his  dunghills  are 
as  much  bound  to  him  as  L  Besides  this 
nothing  that  he  so  plentifully  gives  me,  the 
something  that  nature  gave  me  his  counte- 
nance seems  to  take  from  me:  he  lets  me 
feed  with  his  hinds,  bars  me  the  place  of 
a  brother,  and,  as  much  as  in  him  lies, 
mines  my  gentility  with  my  education. 
This  is  it,  Adam,  that  grieves  me;  and  the 
spirit  of  my  father,  which  I  think  is  within 
me,  begins  to  mutiny  against  this  servitude : 
I  will  no  longer  endure  it,  though  yet  I 
know  no  wise  remedy  how  to  avoid  it. 
Adam.  Yonder  comes  my  master,  your 
brother. 

Orlando.    Go  apart,  Adam,  and  thou  shalt 
hear  how  he  will  shake  me  up. 
Enter  OLIVER. 

Other.   Now,  sir!  what  make  you  here? 
Orlando.    Nothing:  I  am  not  taught  to 
make  any  thing. 

Oliver.    What  mar  you  then,  sir  ? 
Orlando.    Marry,  sir,  I  am  helping  you  to 
mar  that  which  God  made,  a  poor  un- 
worthy brother  of  yours,  with  idleness. 
Oliver.     Marry,  sir,  be  better  employed, 
and  be  naught  awhile. 
Orlando.    Shall  I  keep  your  hogs  and  eat 
husks  with  them  ?    What  prodigal  portion 


have  I  spent,  that  I  should  come  to  such 
penury  ? 

Oliver.    Know  you  where  you  are,  sir  ? 
Orlando.    O,  sir,  very  well ;  here  in  your 
orchard, 

Oliver.  Know  you  before  whom,  sir? 
Orlando.  Ay,  better  than  him  I  am  before 
knows  me,  I  know  you  are  my  eldest 
brother;  and,  in  the  gentle  condition  of 
blood,  you  should  so  know  me.  The 
courtsey  of  nations  allows  you  my  better, 
in  that  you  are  the  first-born;  but  the 
same  tradition  takes  not  away  my  blood, 
were  there  twenty  brothers  betwixt  us:  I 
have  as  much  of  my  father  in  me  as 
you ;  albeit,  I  confess,  your  coming  before 
me  is  nearer  to  his  reverence. 
Oliver.  What,  boy! 

Orlando.    Come,  come,  elder  brother,  you 
are  too  young  in  this. 

Oliver.     Wilt   thou   lay  hands   on   me, 
villain? 

Orlando.  I  am  no  villain;  I  am  the 
youngest  son  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Boys; 
he  was  my  father,  and  he  is  thrice  a 
villain  that  says  such  a  father  begot  vil- 
lains* Wert  thou  not  my  brother,  I  would 
not  take  this  hand  from  thy  throat  till 
this  other  had  pulled  out  thy  tongue  for 
saying  so:  thou  has  railed  on  thysetf. 
Adam.  Sweet  masters,  be  patient:  for 
your  father's  remembrance,  be  at  accord. 
Oliver.  Let  me  go,  I  say. 

3 


Orlando..  I  will  not,  till  I  please :  you  shall 
hear  me.  My  father  charged  you  in  his 
will  to  give  me  good  education :  you  have 
•trained  me  like  a  peasant,  obscuring  and 
hiding  from  me  all  gentleman-like  qualities* 
The  spirit  of  my  father  grows  strong  in 
me,  and  I  will  no  longer  endure  it :  there- 
fore allow  me  such  exercises  as  may  be- 
come a  gentleman,  or  give  me  the  poor 
allottery  my  father  left  me  by  testament; 
with  that  I  will  go  buy  my  fortunes. 
Other.  And  what  wilt  thou  do?  beg, 
when  that  is  spent  ?  Well,  sir,  get  you  in : 
I  will  not  long  be  troubled  with  you ;  you 
shall  have  some  part  of  your  will :  I  pray 
you,  leave  me. 

Orlando.     I  will  no  further  offend  you  than 
becomes  me  for  my  good 
Oliver.      Get    you   with    him,  you    old 
dog. 

Adam.  Is  *  old  dog '  my  reward  ?  Most 
true,  I  have  lost  my  teeth  in  your  service. 
God  be  with  my  old  master !  he  would  not 
have  spoke  such  a  word. 

Exeunt  ORLANDO  and  ADAM. 
Oliver.     Is  it  even  so  ?  begin  you  to  grow 
upon  me?    I  will  physic  your  rankness, 
and  yet  give  no  thousand  crowns  neither. 
Holla,  Dennis! 
Enter  DENNIS. 
Dennis.     Calls  your  worship  ? 
Oliver.     Was   not    Charles,   the   Duke's 
wrestler,  here  to  speak  with  me  ? 


Dennis.     So  please  you,  he  is  here  at  the 
door  and  importunes  access  to  you. 
Oliver.     Call   him   in.     [Exit  DENNIS.] 
'Twill  be  a  good  way;   and  to-morrow 
the  wrestling  is. 
Enter  CHARLES. 

Charles.  Good  morrow  to  your  worship. 
Other.  Good  Monsieur  Charles,  what's 
the  new  news  at  the  new  court  ? 
Charles.  There 's  no  news  at  the  court,  sir, 
but  the  old  news :  that  is,  the  old  Duke  is 
banished  by  his  younger  brother  the  new 
Duke ;  and  three  or  four  loving  lords  have 
put  themselves  into  voluntary  exile  with 
him,  whose  lands  and  revenues  enrich  the 
new  Duke ;  therefore  he  gives  them  good 
leave  to  wander. 

Oliver.  Can  you  tell  if  Rosalind,  the  Duke's 
daughter,  be  banished  with  her  father  ? 
Charles.  O,  no ;  for  the  Duke's  daughter, 
her  cousin,  so  loves  her,  being  ever  from 
their  cradles  bred  together,  that  she  would 
have  followed  her  exile,  or  have  died  to 
stay  behind  her.  She  is  at  the  court,  and 
no  less  beloved  of  her  uncle  than  his  own 
daughter;  and  never  two  ladies  loved  as 
they  do. 

Oliver.  Where  will  the  old  Duke  live  ? 
Charles.  They  say  he  is  already  in  the 
forest  of  Arden,  and  a  many  merry  men 
with  him ;  and  there  they  live  like  the  old 
Robin  Hood  of  England :  they  say  many 
young  gentlemen  flock  to  him  every  day, 


and  fleet  the  time  carelessly,  as  they  did  in 
the  golden  world. 

Oliver.   What,  you  wrestle  to-morrow  be- 
fore the  new  Duke  ? 

Charles.  Marry,  do  I,  sir ;  and  I  came  to 
acquaint  you  with  a  matter.  I  am  given, 
sir,  secretly  to  understand  that  your  younger 
brother,  Orlando,  hath  a  disposition  to  come 
in  disguised  against  me  to  try  a  fall.  To- 
morrow, sir,  I  wrestle  for  my  credit;  and 
he  that  escapes  me  without  some  broken 
limb  shall  acquit  him  well.  Your  brother 
is  but  young  and  tender;  and,  for  your 
love,  I  would  be  loath  to  foil  him,  as  I 
must,  for  my  own  honour,  if  he  come  in : 
therefore,  out  of  my  love  to  you,  I  came 
hither  to  acquaint  you  withal;  that  either 
you  might  stay  him  from  his  intendment, 
or  brook  such  disgrace  well  as  he  shall  run 
into ;  in  that  it  is  a  thing  of  his  own  search, 
and  altogether  against  my  will. 
Oliver.  Charles,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  love 
to  me,  which  thou  shalt  find  I  will  most 
kindly  requite.  I  had  myself  notice  of  my 
brother's  purpose  herein,  and  have  by  un- 
derhand means  laboured  to  dissuade  him 
from  it,  but  he  is  resolute.  I  '11  tell  thee, 
Charles :  —  it  is  the  stubbornest  young  fel- 
low of  France ;  full  of  ambition,  an  envious 
emulator  of  every  man's  good  parts,  a 
secret  and  villanous  contriver  against  me 
his  natural  brother :  therefore  use  thy  dis- 
cretion ;  I  had  as  lief  thou  didst  break  his 

6 


Hi! 


mm. 


neck  as  his  finger.  And  thou  wert  best 
look  to  't ;  for  if  thou  dost  him  any  slight 
disgrace,  or  if  he  do  not  mightily  grace  him- 
self on  thee,  he  will  practise  against  thee 
by  poison,  entrap  thee  by  some  treacherous 
device,  and  never  leave  thee  till  he  hath 
ta'en  thy  life  by  some  indirect  means  or 
other ;  for,  I  assure  thee,  and  almost  with 
tears  I  speak  it,  there  is  not  one  so  young 
and  so  villanous  this  day  living*  I  speak 
but  brotherly  of  him ;  but  should  I  anato- 
mize him  to  thee  as  he  is,  I  must  blush  and 
weep,  and  thou  must  look  pale  and  wonder. 
Charles.  I  am  heartily  glad  I  came  hither 
to  you.  If  he  come  to-morrow,  111  give 
him  his  payment:  if  ever  he  go  alone 
again,  I'll  never  wrestle  for  prize  more: 
and  so,  God  keep  your  worship ! 
Oliver.  Farewell,  good  Charles. 

ExH  CHARLES. 

Now  will  I  stir  this  gamester:  I  hope  I 
shall  see  an  end  of  him;  for  my  soul,  yet  I 
know  not  why,  hates  nothing  more  than 
he.  Yet  he's  gentle;  never  schooled,  and 
yet  learned;  full  of  noble  device;  of  all 
sorts  enchantingly  beloved;  and  indeed  so 
much  in  the  heart  of  the  world,  and  espe- 
cially of  my  own  people,  who  best  know 
him,  that  I  am  altogether  misprised:  but 
it  shall  not  be  so  long ;  this  wrestler  shall 
clear  all :  nothing  remains  but  that  I  kindle 
the  boy  thither ;  which  now  1 11  go  about. 

Exit 

7 


mm. 

•Vvvi  r :  -j 


SCENE  //-LAWN  BEFORE  THE  DUKE'S  PALACE 


Enter  ROSALIND  and  CELIA. 

Celia.  I  pray  thee,  Rosalind,  sweet  my 
coz,  be  merry. 

Rosalind.  Dear  Celia,  I  show  more  mirth 
than  I  am  mistress  of ;  and  would  you  yet 
I  were  merrier  ?  Unless  you  could  teach 
me  to  forget  a  banished  father,  you  must 
not  learn  me  how  to  remember  any  ex- 
traordinary pleasure. 

Celia.  Herein  I  see  thou  lovest  me  not 
with  the  full  weight  that  I  love  thee.  If  my 
uncle,  thy  banished  father,  had  banished 
thy  uncle,  the  Duke  my  father,  so  thou 
hadst  been  still  with  me,  I  could  have 
taught  my  love  to  take  thy  father  for  mine : 
so  wouldst  thou,  if  the  truth  of  thy  love  to 
me  were  so  righteously  tempered  as  mine 
is  to  thee. 

Rosalind.  Well,  I  will  forget  the  condition 
of  my  estate,  to  rejoice  in  yours. 
Celia.  You  know  my  father  hath  no  child 
but  I,  nor  none  is  like  to  have :  and,  truly, 
when  he  dies,  thou  shalt  be  his  heir ;  for 
what  he  hath  taken  away  from  thy  father 
perforce,  I  will  render  thee  again  in  affec- 
tion ;  by  mine  honour,  I  will ;  and  when  I 
break  that  oath,  let  me  turn  monster: 
therefore,  my  sweet  Rose,  my  dear  Rose, 
be  merry. 

8 


Rosalind.  From  henceforth  I  will,  coz, 
and  devise  sports.  Let  me  see ;  what  think 
you  of  falling  in  love  ? 
Celia.  Marry,  I  prithee,  do,  to  make  sport 
withal :  but  love  no  man  in  good  earnest ; 
nor  no  further  in  sport  neither,  than  with 
safety  of  a  pure  blush  thou  mayst  in  honour 
come  off  again. 

Rosalind.  What  shall  be  our  sport,  then  ? 
Celia.  Let  us  sit  and  mock  the  good  house- 
wife Fortune  from  her  wheel,  that  her  gifts 
may  henceforth  be  bestowed  equally. 
Rosalind.  I  would  we  could  do  so;  for 
her  benefits  are  mightily  misplaced ;  and  the 
bountiful  blind  woman  doth  most  mistake 
in  her  gifts  to  women. 
Celia.  T  is  true ;  for  those  that  she  makes 
fair  she  scarce  makes  honest;  and  those 
that  she  makes  honest  she  makes  very  ill- 
favouredly. 

Rosalind.  Nay,  now  thou  goest  from 
Fortune's  office  to  Nature's:  Fortune 
reigns  in  gifts  of  the  world,  not  in  the 
lineaments  of  Nature. 
Enter  TOUCHSTONE. 
Celia.  No?  when  Nature  hath  made 
a  fair  creature,  may  she  not  by  Fortune 
fall  into  the  fire?  Though  Nature  hath 
given  us  wit  to  flout  at  Fortune,  hath 
not  Fortune  sent  in  this  fool  to  cut  off  the 
argument  ? 

Rosalind.     Indeed,  there  is  Fortune  too 
hard  for  Nature,  when    Fortune  makes 


Nature's  natural  the  cutter-off  of  Nature's 
wit. 

Celia.     Peradventure  this  is  not  Fortune's 
work  neither,  but  Nature's ;  who  perceiv- 
eth  our  natural  wits  too  dull  to  reason  of 
such  goddesses,  and  hath  sent  this  natural 
for  our  whetstone ;  for  always  the  dulness 
of  the  fool  is  the  whetstone  of  the  wits. 
How  now,  wit !  whither  wander  you  ? 
Touchstone.      Mistress,  you  must    come 
away  to  your  father* 
Celia.     Were  you  made  the  messenger  ? 
Touchstone.     No,  by  mine  honour,  but  I 
was  bid  to  come  for  you. 
Rosalind.    Where  learned  you  that  oath, 
fool? 

Touchstone.  Of  a  certain  knight  that 
swore  by  his  honour  they  were  good  pan- 
cakes, and  swore  by  his  honour  the  mustard 
was  naught ;  now  1 11  stand  to  it,  the  pan- 
cakes were  naught  and  the  mustard  was 
good,  and  yet  was  not  the  knight  forsworn. 
Celia.  How  prove  you  that,  in  the  great 
heap  of  your  knowledge  ? 
Rosalind.  Ay,  marry,  now  unmuzzle 
your  wisdom. 

Touchstone.  Stand  you  both  forth  now : 
stroke  your  chins,  and  swear  by  your  beards 
that  I  am  a  knave. 

Celia.  By  our  beards,  if  we  had  them, 
thou  art. 

Touchstone.     By  my  knavery,  if  I  had  it, 

then  I  were ;  but  if  you  swear  by  that  that 

10 


is  not,  you  are  not  forsworn :  no  more  was 
this  knight,  swearing  by  his  honour,  for  he 
never  had  any ;  or  if  he  had,  he  had  sworn 
it  away  before  ever  he  saw  those  pancakes 
or  that  mustard 

Celia.  Prithee,  who  is't  that  thou  mean- 
est? 

Touchstone.  One  that  old  Frederick,  your 
father,  loves. 

Celia.  My  father's  love  is  enough  to 
honour  him :  enough  I  speak  no  more  of 
him;  you  11  be  whipped  for  taxation  one 
of  these  days. 

Touchstone.  The  more  pity,  that  fools 
may  not  speak  wisely  what  wise  men  do 
foolishly. 

Celia.  By  my  troth,  thou  sayest  true ;  for 
since  the  little  wit  that  fools  have  was 
silenced,  the  little  foolery  that  wise  men 
have  makes  a  great  show.  Here  comes 
Monsieur  Le  Beau. 

Rosalind.     With  his  mouth  full  of  news. 
Celia.     Which  he  will  put  on  us,  as  pigeons 
feed  their  young. 

Rosalind.  Then  shall  we  be  news- 
crammed. 

Celia.     All  the  better;  we  shall  be  the 
more  marketable. 
Enter  LE  BEAU. 

Bon  jour,  Monsieur  Le  Beau ;  what *s  the 
news? 
Le  Beau.      Fair  princess,  you  have  lost 

much  good  sport. 

n 


v»'     "  HK 

Hti&E 


Celia.     Sport !  of  what  colour  ? 

Le  Beau.     What   colour,    madam !    how 

shall  I  answer  you  ? 

Rosalind.     As  wit  and  fortune  will. 

Touchstone.     Or  as  the  Destinies  decrees. 

Celia.     Well  said:  that  was  kid  on  with 

a  trowel. 

Touchstone.  Nay,  if  I  keep  not  my  rank,  — 

Rosalind.     Thou  losest  thy  old  smell. 

Le  Beau.     You  amaze  me,  ladies :  I  would 

have  told  you  of  good  wrestling,  which 

you  have  lost  the  sight  of. 

Rosalind.     Yet  tell  us  the  manner  of  the 

wrestling. 

Le  Beau.     I  will  tell  you  the  beginning ; 

and,  if  it  please  your  ladyships,  you  may 

see  the  end ;  for  the  best  is  yet  to  do ;  and 

here,  where  you  are,  they  are  coming  to 

perform  it. 

Celia.     Well,  the  beginning,  that  is  dead 

and  buried. 

Le  Beau.     There  comes  an  old  man  and 

his  three  sons,  — 

Celia.     I  could  match  this  beginning  with 
an  old  tale. 

Le  Beau.     Three  proper  young  men,  of 
excellent  growth  and  presence. 
Rosalind.     With  bills  on  their  necks,  'Be 
it  known  unto  all  men  by  these  presents/ 
Le  Beau.     The  eldest  of  the  three  wrestled 
with  Charles,  the  Duke's  wrestler;  which 
Charles  in  a  moment  threw  him,  and  broke 
three  of  his  ribs,  that  there  is  little  hope  of 

J2 


r 


life  in  him :  so  he  served  the  second,  and 
so  the  third  Yonder  they  lie;  the  poor 
old  man,  their  father,  making  such  pitiful 
dole  over  them  that  all  the  beholders  take 
his  part  with  weeping. 
Rosalind.  Alas  I 

Touchstone.     But  what  is  the  sport,  mon- 
sieur, that  the  ladies  have  lost  ? 
Le  Beau.     Why,  this  that  I  speak  of. 
Touchstone.     Thus  men  may  grow  wiser 
every  day:  it  is  the  first  time  that  ever 
I  heard  breaking  of    ribs  was  sport  for 
ladies. 

Celia.     Or  I,  I  promise  thee. 
Rosalind.     But  is  there  any  else  longs  to 
see  this  broken  music  in  his  sides  ?  is  there 
yet  another  dotes  upon  rib-breaking  ?    Shall 
we  see  this  wrestling,  cousin  ? 
Le  Beau.    You  must,  if  you  stay  here ;  for 
here  is  the  place  appointed  for  the  wrest- 
ling, and  they  are  ready  to  perform  it. 
Celia.    Yonder,  sure,  they  are  coming :  let 
us  now  stay  and  see  it. 
Flourish.     Enter     DUKE     FREDERICK, 

LORDS,  ORLANDO,  CHARLES,  and  AT- 
TENDANTS. 

Duke  Frederick.   Come  on :  since  the  youth 

will  not  be  entreated,  his  own  peril  on  his 

forwardness. 

Rosalind.     Is  yonder  the  man  ? 

Le  Beau.     Even  he,  madam. 

Celia.     Alas,  he  is  too  young !  yet  he  looks 

successfully. 

13 


Duke  Frederick.  How  now,  daughter  and 
cousin!  are  you  crept  hither  to  see  the 
wrestling  ? 

Rosalind.  Ay,  my  liege,  so  please  you 
give  us  leave. 

Duke  Frederick.  You  will  take  little  delight 
in  it,  I  can  tell  you,  there  is  such  odds  in 
the  man.  In  pity  of  the  challenger's  youth 
I  would  fain  dissuade  him,  but  he  will  not 
be  entreated.  Speak  to  him,  ladies ;  see  if 
you  can  move  him. 

Celia.  Call  him  hither,  good  Monsieur  Le 
Beau. 

Duke  Frederick.     Do  so :  I  '11  not  be  by. 
Le  Beau.     Monsieur  the   challenger,  the 
princess  calls  for  you. 
Orlando.     I  attend  them  with  all  respect 
and  duty. 

Rosalind.  Young  man,  have  you  chal- 
lenged Charles  the  wrestler  ? 
Orlando.  No,  fair  princess;  he  is  the 
general  challenger:  I  come  but  in,  as 
others  do,  to  try  with  him  the  strength  of 
my  youth. 

Celia.  Young  gentleman,  your  spirits  are 
too  bold  for  your  years.  You  have  seen 
cruel  proof  of  this  man's  strength :  if  you 
saw  yourself  with  your  eyes,  or  knew 
yourself  with  your  judgement,  the  fear  of 
your  adventure  would  counsel  you  to  a 
more  equal  enterprise.  We  pray  you,  for 
your  own  sake,  to  embrace  your  own 
safety,  and  give  over  this  attempt. 

14 


Rosalind.  Do,  young  sir ;  your  reputation 
shall  not  therefore  be  misprised:  we  will 
make  it  our  suit  to  the  Duke  that  the 
wrestling  might  not  go  forward. 
Orlando.  I  beseech  you,  punish  me  not 
with  your  hard  thoughts ;  wherein  I  confess 
me  much  guilty,  to  deny  so  fair  and  excel- 
lent ladies  any  thing.  But  let  your  fair 
eyes  and  gentle  wishes  go  with  me  to  my 
trial:  wherein  if  I  be  foiled,  there  is  but 
one  shamed  that  was  never  gracious;  if 
killed,  but  one  dead  that  is  willing  to  be  so : 
I  shall  do  my  friends  no  wrong,  for  I  have 
none  to  lament  me;  the  world  no  injury, 
for  in  it  I  have  nothing :  only  in  the  world 
I  fill  up  a  place,  which  may  be  better  sup- 
plied when  I  have  made  it  empty. 
Rosalind.  The  little  strength  that  I  have, 
I  would  it  were  with  you. 
Celia.  And  mine,  to  eke  out  hers. 
Rosalind.  Fare  you  well :  pray  heaven  I 
be  deceived  in  you! 

Celia.  Your  heart's  desires  be  with  you ! 
Charles.  Come,  where  is  this  young  gallant 
that  is  so  desirous  to  lie  with  his  mother 
earth? 

Orlando.     Ready,  sir ;  but  his  will  hath  in 
it  a  more  modest  working. 
Duke  Frederick.     You  shall  try  but  one 
fall. 

Charles.  No,  I  warrant  your  Grace,  you 
shall  not  entreat  him  to  a  second,  that  have 
so  mightily  persuaded  him  from  a  first. 

15 


mm 


Orlando.     You  mean  to  mock  me  after; 

you  should  not  have  mocked  me  before: 

but  come  your  ways* 

Rosalind.     Now  Hercules  be  thy  speed, 

young  man ! 

Celia.     I  would  I  were  invisible,  to  catch 

the  strong  fellow  by  the  leg. 

They  wrestle. 

Rosalind.     O  excellent  young  man  1 
Celia.     If  I  had  a  thunderbolt  in  mine  eye, 
I  can  tell  who  should  down. 

Shout     CHARLES  is  thrown. 
Duke  Frederick.     No  more,  no  more. 
Orlando.     Yes,  I  beseech  your  Grace:  I 
am  not  yet  well  breathed. 
Duke  Frederick.    How  dost  thou,  Charles  ? 
Le  Beau.     He  cannot  speak,  my  lord* 
Duke  Frederick.     Bear  him  away.    What 
is  thy  name,  young  man  ? 
Orlando.  Orlando,  my  liege;  the  youngest 
son  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Boys. 
Duke  Frederick.     I  would  thou  hadst  been 

son  to  some  man  else: 
The  world  esteemed  thy  father  honourable, 
But  I  did  find  him  still  mine  enemy : 
Thou  shouldst  have  better  pleased  me  with 

this  deed, 

Hadst  thou  descended  from  another  house. 
But  fare  thee  well;  thou  art  a  gallant 

youth: 

I  would  thou  hadst  told  me  of  another  father. 
Exeunt  DUKE  FREDERICK,  TRAIN,  and 
LE  BEAU* 


Celia.     Were  I  my  father,  cos,  would  I  do 

this? 
Orlando.     I  am  more  proud  to  be  Sir 

Rowland's  son, 
His  youngest  son ;  and  would  not  change 

that  calling, 

To  be  adopted  heir  to  Frederick, 
Rosalind.     My  father  loved  Sir  Rowland 

as  his  soul, 

And  all  the  world  was  of  my  father's  mind : 
Had  I  before  known  this  young  man  his 

son, 

1  should  have  given  him  tears  unto  entreaties, 
Ere  he  should  thus  have  ventured. 

Celia.  Gentle  cousin, 

Let  us  go  thank  him  and  encourage  him : 
My  father's  rough  and  envious  disposition 
Sticks  me  at  heart.    Sir,  you  have  well 

deserved : 

If  you  do  keep  your  promises  in  love 
But  justly,  as  you  have  exceeded  all  promise, 
Your  mistress  shall  be  happy. 
Rosalind.  Gentleman, 

[Giving  him  a  chain  from  her  neck.'] 
Wear  this  for  me,  one  out  of  suits  with 

fortune, 
That  could  give  more,  but  that  her  hand 

lacks  means. 
Shall  we  go,  coz  ? 
Celia.  Ay.  Fare  you  well,  fair 

gentleman. 
Orlando.     Can  I  not  say,  I  thank  you? 

My  better  parts 

2  17 


Are  all  thrown  down,  and  that  which  here 

stands  up 

Is  but  a  quintain,  a  mere  lifeless  block. 
Rosalind.    He  calls  us  back :  my  pride  fell 

with  my  fortunes ; 
I  '11  ask  him  what  he  would.    Did  you  call, 

sir? 

Sir,  you  have  wrestled  well  and  overthrown 
More  than  your  enemies. 
Celia.  Will  you  go,  coz  ? 

Rosalind.  Have  with  you.  Fare  you  well. 
Exeunt  ROSALIND  and  CELIA. 
Orlando.      What    passion    hangs    these 

weights  upon  my  tongue  ? 
I   cannot    speak  to   her,   yet   she   urged 

conference. 

O  poor  Orlando,  thou  art  overthrown  I 
Or  Charles  or  something  weaker  masters 

thee. 

Re-enter  LE  BEAU. 

Le  Beau.      Good   sir,  I  do  in  friendship 

counsel  you 
To  leave  this  place.      Albeit    you  have 

deserved 
High  commendation,  true  applause,  and 

love, 

Yet  such  is  now  the  Duke's  condition, 
That  he  misconstrues  all  that  you  have 

done. 

The  Duke  is  humorous :  what  he  is,  indeed, 
More  suits  you  to  conceive  than  I  to  speak 

of. 

18 


"Sir,  you  have  wrestled  well,  and 
overthrown  more  than  your  enemies." 


Orlando.    I  thank  you,  sir :  and,  pray  you, 

tell  me  this ; 
Which  of  the  two  was  daughter  of  the 

Duke, 

That  here  was  at  the  wrestling  ? 
Le  Beau.     Neither   his  daughter,  if    we 

judge  by  manners ; 

But  yet,  indeed,  the  taller  is  his  daughter : 
The  other  is  daughter  to  the  banish'd  Duke, 
And  here  detained  by  her  usurping  uncle, 
To  keep  his  daughter  company;  whose  loves 
Are  dearer  than  the  natural  bond  of  sisters. 
But  I  can  tell  you  that  of  late  this  Duke 
Hath  ta'en  displeasure  'gainst  his  gentle 

niece, 

Grounded  upon  no  other  argument 
But  that  the  people  praise  her  for  her  virtues, 
And  pity  her  for  her  good  father's  sake ; 
And,  on  my  life,  his  malice  'gainst  the  lady 
Will  suddenly  break  forth.     Sir,  fare  you 

well: 

Hereafter,  in  a  better  world  than  this, 
I  shall  desire  more  love  and  knowledge  of 

you. 
Orlando.    I  rest  much  bounden  to  you : 

fare  you  well. 

Exit  LE  BEAU. 

Thus   must  I  from  the  smoke  into  the 

smother ; 

From  tyrant  Duke  unto  a  tyrant  brother : 
But  heavenly  Rosalind  I  Exit 


J9 


Enter  CELIA  and  ROSALIND. 


Celia.     Why,    cousin!    why,    Rosalind! 
Cupid  have  mercy !  not  a  word  ? 
Rosalind.    Not  one  to  throw  at  a  dog. 
Celia.    No,  thy  words  are  too  precious  to 
be  cast  away  upon  curs;  throw  some  of 
them  at  me;  come,  lame  me  with  reasons. 
Rosalind.     Then  there  were  two  cousins 
laid  up ;  when  the  one  should  be  lamed  with 
reasons  and  the  other  mad  without  any* 
Celia.    But  is  all  this  for  your  father  ? 
Rosalind.     No,  some  of  it  is  for  my  child's 
father.     O,  how  full  of  briers  is  this  work- 
ing-day world ! 

Celia.  They  are  but  burs,  cousin,  thrown 
upon  thee  in  holiday  foolery:  if  we  walk 
not  in  the  trodden  paths,  our  very  petticoats 
will  catch  them. 

Rosalind.    I  could  shake  them  off  my  coat : 
these  burs  are  in  my  heart. 
Celia.    Hem  them  away. 
Rosalind.    I  would  try,  if  I  could  cry  hem 
and  have  him. 

Celia.  Come,  come,  wrestle  with  thy 
affections. 

Rosalind.  O,  they  take  the  part  of  a  better 
wrestler  than  myself ! 

Celia.    O,  a  good  wish  upon  you!  you 

will  try  in  time,  in  despite  of  a  fall.    But, 

20 


turning  these  jests  out  of  service,  let  us  talk 

in  good  earnest :  is  it  possible,  on  such  a 

sudden,  you  should  fall  into  so  strong  a 

liking  with  old  Sir  Rowland's  youngest 

son? 

Rosalind.     The  Duke  my  father  loved  his 

father  dearly. 

Celia.    Doth  it  therefore  ensue  that  you 

should  love  his  son  dearly  ?    By  this  kind 

of  chase,  I  should  hate  him,  for  my  father 

hated  his  father   dearly;    yet  I  hate  not 

Orlando. 

Rosalind.     No,  faith,  hate  him  not,  for  my 

sake* 

Celia.    Why  should  I  not?   doth  he  not 

deserve  well  ? 

Rosalind.    Let  me  love  him  for  that,  and 

do  you  love  him  because  I  do.    Look,  here 

comes  the  Duke. 

Celia.    With  his  eyes  full  of  anger. 

Enter  DUKE  FREDERICK,  with  LORDS. 

Duke  Frederick.      Mistress,  dispatch  you 

with  your  safest  haste 
And  get  you  from  our  court. 
Rosalind.  Me,  Uncle  ? 

Duke  Frederick.  You,  cousin : 

Within  these  ten  days  if  that  thou  be'st 

found 

So  near  our  public  court  as  twenty  miles, 
Thou  diest  for  ft* 

Rosalind.  I  do  beseech  your  Grace, 

Let  me  the  knowledge  of  my  fault  bear 

wfth  me: 

2J 


If  with  myself  I  hold  intelligence, 

Or  have    acquaintance    with    mine  own 

desires ; 

If  that  I  do  not  dream,  or  be  not  frantic,  — 
As  I  do  trust  I  am  not,  —  then,  dear  uncle, 
Never  so  much  as  in  a  thought  unborn 
Did  I  offend  your  Highness* 
Duke  Frederick.  Thus  do  all  traitors 

If  their  purgation  did  consist  in  words, 
They  are  as  innocent  as  grace  itself : 
Let  it  suffice  thee  that  I  trust  thee  not. 
Rosalind.    Yet  your  mistrust  cannot  make 

me  a  traitor : 

Tell  me  whereon  the  likelihood  depends. 
Duke  Frederick.      Thou  art  thy  father's 

daughter;  there 's  enough. 
Rosalind.     So  was  I  when  your  Highness 

took  his  dukedom ; 
So  was  I  when  your  Highness  banish'd 

him: 

Treason  is  not  inherited,  my  lord ; 
Or,  if  we  did  derive  it  from  our  friends, 
What's  that  to  me?    my  father  was  no 

traitor : 
Then,  good  my  liege,  mistake  me  not  so 

mucn 

To  think  my  poverty  is  treacherous. 
Celia.     Dear  sovereign,  hear  me  speak. 
Duke  Frederick.    Ay,  Celia ;  we  stay'd  her 

for  your  sake, 

Else  had  she  with  her  father  ranged  along. 
Celia.    I  did  not  then  entreat  to  have  her 

stay; 


It  was  your  pleasure  and  your  own  remorse : 
I  was  too  young  that  time  to  value  her ; 
But  now  I  know  her,  if  she  be  a  traitor, 
Why  so  am  I ;  we  still  have  slept  together, 
Rose  at   an    instant,  learn'd,  play'd,  eat 

together, 
And  wheresoever  we    went,    like  Juno's 

swans, 

Still  we  went  coupled  and  inseparable* 
Duke  Frederick.    She  is  too  subtle  for  thee ; 

and  her  smoothness, 
Her  very  silence  and  her  patience 
Speak  to  the  people,  and  they  pity  her. 
Thou  art  a  fool :  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name ; 
And  thou  wilt  show  more  bright  and  seem 

more  virtuous 
When  she  is  gone.    Then  open  not  thy 

lips: 

Firm  and  irrevocable  is  my  doom 
Which  I  have  pass'd  upon  her;    she  is 

banish'd. 
Celia.    Pronounce  that   sentence  then  on 

me,  my  liege : 

I  cannot  live  out  of  her  company. 
Duke  Frederick.    You  are  a  fool.     You, 

niece,  provide  yourself : 
If  you  outstay  the  time,  upon  mine  honour, 
And  in  the  greatness  of  my  word,  you  die. 

Exeunt  DUKE  FREDERICK  and  LORDS. 

Celia.    O  my  poor  Rosalind,  whither  wilt 

thou  go  ? 
Wilt  thou  change  fathers  ?  I  will  give  thee 

mine. 

23 


I  charge  thee,  be  not  thou  more  grieved  than 

I  am. 

Rosalind.    I  have  more  cause. 
Celia.  Thou  hast  not,  cousin ; 

Prithee,  be  cheerful :  knoVst  thou  not,  the 

Duke 

Hath  banished  me,  his  daughter  ? 
Rosalind.  That  he  hath  not. 

Celia.    No,  hath  not  ?  Rosalind  lacks  then 

the  love 
Which  teacheth  thee  that  thou  and  I  am 

one: 
Shall    we    be  sunder'd?    shall   we  part, 

sweet  girl  ? 

No :  let  my  father  seek  another  heir. 
Therefore  devise  with  me  how  we  may  fly, 
Whither  to  go  and  what  to  bear  with  us ; 
And  do  not  seek  to  take  your  change  upon 

you, 
To  bear  your  griefs  yourself  and  leave  me 

out; 
For,  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows 

pale, 
Say  what  thou  canst,  1 11  go  along  with 

thee. 

Rosalind.    Why,  whither  shall  we  go  ? 
Celia.    To  seek  my  uncle  in  the  forest  of 

Arden. 
Rosalind.    Alas,  what  danger  will  it  be  to 

us, 

Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  forth  so  far ! 
Beauty    provoketh    thieves    sooner    than 
gold. 

24 


'      -  v 


Celia.    I'll  put  myself  in  poor  and  mean 

attire 

And  with  a  kind  of  umber  smirch  my  face ; 
The  like  do  you :  so  shall  we  pass  along 
And  never  stir  assailants. 
Rosalind.  Were  it  not  better, 

Because  that  I  am  more  than  common  tall, 
That  I  did  suit  me  all  points  like  a  man  ? 
A  gallant  curtle-axe  upon  my  thigh, 
A  boar-spear  in  my  hand;   and  —  in  my 

heart 
Lie  there  what  hidden  woman's  fear  there 

will  — 

We  '11  have  a  swashing  and  a  martial  out- 
side, 

As  many  other  mannish  cowards  have 
That  do  outface  it  with  their  semblances. 
Celia.    What  shall  I  call  thee  when  thou 

art  a  man  ? 
Rosalind.     I  '11  have  no  worse  a  name  than 

Jove's  own  page ; 

And  therefore  look  you  call  me  Ganymede. 
But  what  will  you  be  call'd  ? 
Celia.    Something  that  hath  a  reference  to 

my  state : 

No  longer  Celia,  but  Aliena. 
Rosalind.     But,  cousin,  what  if  we  assa/d 

to  steal 
The  clownish  fool  out  of   your  father's 

court? 

Would  he  not  be  a  comfort  to  our  travel  ? 
Celia.    He  '11  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world 

with  me ; 

25 


"""••  *v»  *V£? 

mm 


Leave  me  alone  to  woo  him.    Let 's  away, 
And  get  our  jewels  and  our  wealth  together ; 
Devise  the  fittest  time  and  safest  way 
To  hide  us  from  pursuit  that  will  be  made 
After  my  flight.     Now  go  we  in  content 
To  liberty  and  not  to  banishment.    Exeunt 


• 


SCENE  /-THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN 


Enter  DUKE  senior,  AMIENS,  and  two  or 
three  LORDS,  like  foresters. 

Duke  Senior.    Now,    my    co-mates    and 

brothers  in  exile, 
Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more 

sweet 
Than  that  of  painted  pop  ?    Are  not  these 

woods 

More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court  ? 
Here  feel  we  but  the  penalty  of  Adam, 
The  seasons'  difference ;  as  the  icy  fang 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind, 
Which,  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my 

body, 

29 


Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile  and  say 
This  is  no  flattery :  these  are  counsellors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am/ 
Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity ; 
Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head : 
And  this  our  life  exempt  from  public  haunt 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running 

brooks, 

Sermons  in  stones  and  good  in  every  thing. 
I  would  not  change  it. 
Amiens.  Happy  is  your  Grace, 

Than  can  translate  the  stubbornness  of 

fortune 

Into  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a  style. 
Duke  Senior.    Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill 

us  venison? 

And  yet  it  irks  me  the  poor  dappled  fools, 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city, 
Should  in  their  own  confines  with  forked 

heads 

Have  their  round  haunches  gored. 
First  Lord.  Indeed,  my  lord, 

The  melancholy  Jaques  grieves  at  that, 
And,  in  that   kind,  swears  you  do  more 

usurp 
Than  doth  your  brother  that  hath  banish'd 

you. 

To-day  my  Lord  of  Amiens  and  myself 
Did  steal  behind  him  as  he  lay  along 
Under  an  oak  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this 

wood: 

30      * 


m 


To  the  which  place  a  poor  sequestered  stag, 
That  from  the  hunter's  aim  had  ta'en  a 

hurt, 

Did  come  to  languish,  and  indeed,  my  lord, 
The  wretched  animal  heaved  forth  such 

groans, 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leathern 

coat 

Almost  to  bursting,  and  the  big  round  tears 
Coursed  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose 
In  piteous  chase ;  and  thus  the  hairy  fool, 
Much  marked  of  the  melancholy  Jaques, 
Stood  on  the  extremest  verge  of  the  swift 

brook, 

Augmenting  it  with  tears. 
Duke  Senior.  But  what  said  Jaques  ? 

Did  he  not  moralise  this  spectacle  ? 
First  Lord.   O,  yes,  into  a  thousand  similes* 
First,  for  his  weeping  into  the  needless 

stream ; 
'Poor  deer/   quoth  he,   'thou  makest  a 

testament 

As  worldlings  do,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  which  had  too  much : '  then,  being 

there  alone, 

Left  and  abandoned  of  his  velvet  friends ; 
4  'T  is  right/  quoth  he ;  '  thus  misery  doth 

part 
The  flux  of  company:'  anon  a  careless 

herd, 

Full  of  the  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him 
And  never  stays  to  greet  him ;  '  Ay/  quoth 

Jaques, 

3J 


'  Sweep  on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens ; 
'Tis  just  the  fashion:  wherefore  do  you 

look 

Upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  ? ' 
Thus  most  invectively  he  pierceth  through 
The  body  of  the  country,  city,  court, 
Yea,  and  of  this  our  life ;  swearing  that  we 
Are  mere  usurpers,  tyrants  and  what 's 

worse, 

To  fright  the  animals  and  to  kill  them  up 
In  their  assigned  and  native  dwelling-place. 
Duke  Senior.    And  did  you  leave  him  in 

this  contemplation  ? 
Second  Lord.    We  did,  my  lord,  weeping 

and  commenting 
Upon  the  sobbing  deer. 
Duke  Senior.  Show  me  the  place : 

I  love  to  cope  him  in  these  sullen  fits, 
For  then  he 's  full  of  matter. 
First  Lord.    I  '11  bring  you  to  him  straight. 

Exeunt. 


A  ROOM  IN  THE  PALACE 


Enter  DUKE  FREDERICK,  <wttfi  LORDS. 

Duke  Frederick.     Can  it  be  possible  that 

no  man  saw  them  ? 

It  cannot  be :  some  villains  of  my  court 
Are  of  consent  and  sufferance  in  this. 
First  Lord.    I  cannot  hear  of  any  that  did 

see  her. 
The  ladies,  her  attendants  of  her  chamber, 

32 


Saw  her  a-bed,  and  in  the  morning  early 
They  found  the  bed  untreasured  of  their 

mistress. 
Second  Lord.    My  lord,  the  roynish  clown, 

at  whom  so  oft 
Your  Grace  was  wont  to  laugh,  is  also 

missing. 

Hisperia,  the  princess'  gentlewoman, 
Confesses  that  she  secretly  o'erheard 
Your  daughter  and  her  cousin  much 

commend 

The  parts  and  graces  of  the  wrestler 
That  did  but  lately  foil  the  sinewy  Charles ; 
And  she  believes,  wherever  they  are  gone, 
That  youth  is  surely  in  their  company. 
Duke  Frederick.     Send  to  his  brother ;  fetch 

that  gallant  hither ; 

If  he  be  absent,  bring  his  brother  to  me ; 
I  '11  make  him  find  him :  do  this  suddenly, 
And  let  not  search  and  inquisition  quail 
To  bring  again  these  foolish  runaways. 

Exeunt. 


SCENE  ///-BEFORE  OLIVER'S  HOUSE 


Enter  ORLANDO  and  ADAM,  meeting. 

Orlando.     Who 's  there  ? 

Adam.    What,  my  young  master  ?    O  my 

gentle  master ! 

O  my  sweet  master  1     O  you  memory 
Of  old  Sir  Rowland !  why,  what  make  you 

here? 

3  33 


Why  are  you  virtuous?    why  do  people 

love  you  ? 
And  wherefore  are  you  gentle,  strong  and 

valiant? 

Why  would  you  be  so  fond  to  overcome 
The  bonny  priser  of  the  humorous  Duke  ? 
Your  praise  is  come  too  swiftly  home  before 

you. 
Know  you  not,  master,  to  some  kind  of 

men 

Their  graces  serve  them  but  as  enemies? 
No  more  do  yours:  your  virtues,  gentle 

master, 

Are  sanctified  and  holy  traitors  to  you. 
O,  what  a  world  is  this,  when  what  is 

comely 

Envenoms  him  that  bears  it  1 
Orlando.    Why,  what 's  the  matter  ? 
Adam.  O  unhappy  youth ! 

Gome  not  within  these  doors ;  within  this 

roof 

The  enemy  of  all  your  graces  lives : 
Your  brother — no,  no  brother;    yet  the 

son  — 

Yet  not  the  son,  I  will  not  call  him  son, 
Of  him  I  was  about  to  call  his  father,  — 
Hath  heard  your  praises,  and  this  night  he 

means 
To  burn  the  lodging  where  you  use  to 

lie 

And  you  within  it :  if  he  fail  of  that, 
He  will  have  other  means  to  cut  you  off. 
I  overheard  him  and  his  practices. 

34 


mm 


m. 


This  is  no  place;    this  house  is  but  a 

butchery : 

Abhor  it,  fear  it,  do  not  enter  it» 
Orlando.    Why,  whither,  Adam,  wouldst 

thou  have  me  go  ? 
Adam.    No  matter  whither,  so  you  come 

not  here. 
Orlando.    What,  wouldst  thou  have  me 

go  and  beg  my  food  ? 
Or    with    a  base   and  boisterous  sword 

enforce 

A  thievish  living  on  the  common  road  ? 
This  I  must  do,  or  know  not  what  to  do ; 
Yet  this  I  will  not  do,  do  how  I  can ; 
I  rather  will  subject  me  to  the  malice 
Of  a  diverted  blood  and  bloody  brother. 
Adam.    But  do  not  so.    I  have  five  hun- 
dred crowns, 

The  thrifty  hire  I  saved  under  your  father, 
Which  I  did  store  to  be  my  foster-nurse 
When  service  should  in  my  old  limbs  lie 

lame, 

And  unregarded  age  in  corners  thrown : 
Take  that,  and  He  that  doth  the  ravens 

feed, 

Yea,  providently  caters  for  the  sparrow, 
Be   comfort  to  my  age!      Here  is   the 

gold; 
All  this  I  give  you.     Let  me  be  your 

servant : 
Though  I  look  old,  yet  I  am  strong  and 

lusty; 
For  in  my  youth  I  never  did  apply 

35 


. 


Hot  and  rebellious  liquors  in  my  blood, 
Nor  did  not  with  unbashful  forehead  woo 
The  means  of  weakness  and  debility ; 
Therefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter, 
Frosty,  but  kindly :  let  me  go  with  you ; 
I  '11  do  the  service  of  a  younger  man 
In  all  your  business  and  necessities. 
Orlando.    O  good  old  man,  how  well  in 

thee  appears 

The  constant  service  of  the  antique  world, 
When  service  sweat  for  duty,  not  for  meed  1 
Thou  art  not  for  the  fashion  of  these  times, 
Where  none  will  sweat  but  for  promotion, 
And  having  that  do  choke  their  service  up 
Even  with  the  having:  it  is  not  so  with 

thee. 
But,  poor  old  man,  thou  prunest  a  rotten 

tree, 

That  can  not  so  much  as  a  blossom  yield 
In  lieu  of  all  thy  pains  and  husbandry. 
But  come   thy    ways;    we'll    go    along 

together, 

And  ere  we  have  thy  youthful  wages  spent, 
We  11  light  upon  some  settled  low  content. 
Adam.  Master,  go  on,  and  I  will  follow 

thee, 

To  the  last  gasp,  with  truth  and  loyalty. 
From  seventeen  years  till  now  almost  four- 
score 

Here  lived  I,  but  now  live  here  no  more. 
At  seventeen  years  many  their  fortunes 

seek; 
But  at  fourscore  it  is  too  late  a  week : 

36 


Yet  fortune  cannot  recompense  me  better 
Than  to  die  well  and  not  my  master's 
debtor.  Exeunt 


Enter  ROSALIND  for  Ganymede,  CELIA 
for  Aliena,  and  TOUCHSTONE. 

Rosalind*     O  Jupiter,  how  weary  are  my 
spirits  I 

Touchstone.    I  care  not  for  my  spirits,  if 
my  legs  were  not  weary. 
Rosalind.    I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  dis- 
grace my  man's  apparel  and  to  cry  like  a 
woman;   but  I  must  comfort  the  weaker 
vessel,  as  doublet  and  hose  ought  to  show 
itself  courageous  to    petticoat:    therefore, 
courage,  good  Aliena. 
Celia.    I  pray  you,  bear  with  me;  I  can 
not  go  no  further. 

Touchstone.    For  my  part,  I  had  rather 
bear  with  you  than  bear  you :  yet  I  should 
bear  no  cross,  if  I  did  bear  you ;  for  I  think 
you  have  no  money  in  your  purse. 
Rosalind.    Well,  this  is  the  forest  of  Arden. 
Touchstone.  Ay,  now  am  I  in  Arden ;  the 
more  fool  I ;  when  I  was  at  home,  I  was  in  a 
better  place :  but  travellers  must  be  content. 
Rosalind.    Ay,  be  so,  good  Touchstone. 
Enter  CORIN  and  SlLVIUS. 
Look  you,  who  comes  here ;  a  young  man 
and  an  old  in  solemn  talk. 

37 


SCENE  IV-  THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN 

~   "    c 


im 


Corin.     That  is  the  way  to  make  her 

scorn  you  still. 
Silvias.    O  Corin,  that  thou  knew*st  how 

I  do  love  her ! 
Corin.    I  partly  guess ;  for  I  have  loved  ere 

now. 
Silvias.    No,  Corin,  being  old,  thou  canst 

not  guess, 
Though  in  thy  youth  thou  wast  as  true  a 

lover 

As  ever  sigh'd  upon  a  midnight  pillow : 
But  if  thy  love  were  ever  like  to  mine,  — 
As  sure  I  think  did  never  man  love  so,  — 
How  many  actions  most  ridiculous 
Hast  thou  been  drawn  to  by  thy  fantasy  ? 
Corin.  Into  a  thousand  that  I  have  forgotten. 
Silvias.    O,  thou  didst  then  ne'er  love  so 

heartily! 

If  thou  remember'st  not  the  slightest  folly 
That  ever  love  did  make  thee  run  into, 
Thou  hast  not  loved : 
Or  if  thou  hast  not  sat  as  I  do  now, 
Wearing  thy  hearer  in  thy  mistress'  praise, 
Thou  hast  not  loved : 
Or  if  thou  hast  not  broke  from  company 
Abruptly,  as  my  passion  now  makes  me, 
Thou  hast  not  loved. 

0  Phebe,  Phebe,  Phebe !  Exit 
Rosalind.    Alas,  poor  shepherd !  searching 

of  thy  wound, 

1  have  by  hard  adventure  found  mine  own. 
Touchstone.     And  I  mine.    I  remember, 
when  I  was  in  love  I  broke  my  sword  upon 

38 


a  stone  and  bid  him  take  that  for  coming 
a-night  to  Jane  Smile :  and  I  remember  the 
kissing  of  her  batlet  and  the  cow's  dugs 
that  her  pretty  chopt  hands  had  milked: 
and  I  remember  the  wooing  of  a  peascod 
instead  of  her ;  from  whom  I  took  two  cods 
and,  giving  her  them  again,  said  with 
weeping  tears  'Wear  these  for  my  sake/ 
We  that  are  true  lovers  run  into  strange 
capers ;  but  as  all  is  mortal  in  nature,  so  is 
all  nature  in  love  mortal  in  folly* 
Rosalind.  Thou  speakest  wiser  than  thou 
art  ware  of. 

Touchstone.    Nay,  I  shall  ne'er  be  ware 
of  mine  own  wit  till  I  break  my  shins 
against  it. 
Rosalind.    Jove,    Jove  I    this    shepherd's 

passion 

Is  much  upon  my  fashion. 
Touchstone.      And  mine;  but  it  grows 
something  stale  with  me. 
Celia.    I  pray  you,  one  of  you  question 

yond  man 

If  he  for  gold  will  give  us  any  food : 
I  faint  almost  to  death. 
Touchstone.  Holla,  you  clown  I 

Rosalind.    Peace,  fool :  he 's  not  thy  kins- 
man. 

Corin.  Who  calls  ? 

Touchstone.    Your  betters,  sir. 
Corin.  Else  are  they  very  wretched. 

Rosalind.    Peace,  I  say.    Good  even  to 
you,  friend. 

39 


Corin.    And  to  you,  gentle  sir,  and  to  you 

all 

Rosalind.    I  prithee,  shepherd,  if  that  love 

or  gold 

Can  in  this  desert  place  buy  entertainment, 
Bring  us  where  we  may  rest  ourselves  and 

feed: 
Here's  a  young  maid  with  travel  much 

oppressed 

And  faints  for  succour. 
Coriru  Fair  sir,  I  pity  her 

And  wish,  for  her  sake  more  than  for  mine 

own, 

My  fortunes  were  more  able  to  relieve  her ; 
But  I  am  shepherd  to  another  man 
And  do  not  shear  the  fleeces  that  I  graze : 
My  master  is  of  churlish  disposition 
And  little  recks  to  find  the  way  to  heaven 
By  doing  deeds  of  hospitality : 
Besides,  his  cote,  his  flocks  and  bounds  of 

feed 
Are  now  on  sale,  and   at  our  sheepcote 

now, 

By  reason  of  his  absence,  there  is  nothing 
That  you  will  feed  on ;  but  what  is,  come 

see, 
And  in  my  voice  most  welcome  shall  you 

be. 
Rosalind.    What  is  he  that  shall  buy  his 

flock  and  pasture  ? 
Corin.    That  young  swain  that  you  saw 

here  but  erewhile, 
That  little  cares  for  buying  any  thing. 

40 


Rosalind.     I  pray  thee,  if  it   stand  with 

honesty, 
Buy  thou  the    cottage,  pasture   and  the 

flock, 

And  thou  shalt  have  to  pay  for  it  of  us. 
Celia.    And  we  will  mend  thy  wages.    I 

like  this  place, 

And  willingly  could  waste  my  time  in  it. 
Corin.    Assuredly  the  thing  is  to  be  sold : 
Go  with  me :  if  you  like  upon  report 
The  soil,  the  profit  and  this  kind  of  life, 
I  will  your  very  faithful  feeder  be 
And  buy  it  with  your  gold  right  suddenly. 

Exeunt 

SCENE  V-  THE  FOREST 

Enter  AMIENS,  JAQUES,  and  others. 

SONG. 

Amiens.    Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither : 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaques.    More,  more,  I  prithee,  more. 
Amiens.    It  will  make  you  melancholy, 
Monsieur  Jaques. 

Jaques.    I  thank  it.    More,  I  prithee,  more. 
I  can  suck  melancholy  out  of  a  song,  as 

4J 


a  weasel  sticks   eggs.     More,  I  prithee, 
more. 

Amiens.    My  voice  is  ragged:  I  know  I 
cannot  please  you. 

Jaques.    I  do  not  desire  you  to  please  me ; 
I  do  desire  you  to  sing.    Come,  more; 
another  stanzo :  call  you  'em  stanzos  ? 
Amiens.    What  you  will,  Monsieur  Jaques. 
Jaqaes.    Nay,  I  care  not  for  their  names ; 
they  owe  me  nothing.    Will  you  sing  ? 
Amiens.    More  at  your  request  than  to 
please  myself. 

Jaques.  Well  then,  if  ever  I  thank  any 
man,  I '11  thank  you;  but  that  they  call 
compliment  is  like  the  encounter  of  two 
dog-apes,  and  when  a  man  thanks  me 
heartily,  methinks  I  have  given  him  a 
penny  and  he  renders  me  the  beggarly 
thanks.  Come,  sing;  and  you  that  will 
not,  hold  your  tongues. 
Amiens.  Well,  I'll  end  the  song.  Sirs, 
cover  the  while ;  the  Duke  will  drink  under 
this  tree.  He  hath  been  all  this  day  to  look 
you. 

Jaques.  And  I  have  been  all  this  day  to 
avoid  him.  He  is  too  disputable  for  my 
company;  I  think  of  as  many  matters  as 
he ;  but  I  give  heaven  thanks,  and  make  no 
boast  of  them.  Come,  warble,  come. 
SONG. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun,  [All  together 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun,  here. 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 

42 


And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither : 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaques.    1 11  give  you  a  verse  to  this  note, 

that  I  made  yesterday  in  despite  of  my 

invention. 

Amiens.    And  Til  sing  it. 

Jaques.    Thus  it  goes :  — 

If  it  do  come  to  pass 
That  any  man  turn  ass, 
Leaving  his  wealth  and  ease 
A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducdame,  ducdame,  ducdame : 
Here  shall  he  see 
Gross  fools  as  he, 
And  if  he  will  come  to  me. 

Amiens.    What 's  that '  ducdame'  ? 
Jaques.    'Tis  a  Greek  invocation,  to  call 
fools  into  a  circle.    I  '11  go  sleep,  if  I  can ; 
if  I  cannot,  I  '11  rail  against  all  the  first-born 
of  Egypt. 

Amiens.    And  1 11  go  seek  the  Duke :  his 
banquet  is  prepared.         Exeunt  severally. 


Enter  ORLANDO  and  ADAM. 

Adam.  Dear  master,  I  can  go  no  further ; 
O,  I  die  for  food !  Here  lie  I  down,  and 
measure  out  my  grave.  Farewell,  kind 
master. 

Orlando.  Why,  how  now,  Adam!  no 
greater  heart  in  thee  ?  Live  a  little ;  com- 
fort a  little;  cheer  thyself  a  little.  If  this 
uncouth  forest  yield  any  thing  savage,  I 
will  either  be  food  for  it  or  bring  it  for  food 
to  thee.  Thy  conceit  is  nearer  death  than 
thy  powers.  For  my  sake  be  comfortable ; 
hold  death  awhile  at  the  arm's  end :  I  will 
here  be  with  thee  presently ;  and  if  I  bring 
thee  not  something  to  eat,  I  will  give  thee 
leave  to  die:  but  if  thou  diest  before  I 
come,  thou  art  a  mocker  of  my  labour. 
Well  said!  thou  lookest  cheerly,  and  I'll 
be  with  thee  quickly.  Yet  thou  liest  in  the 
bleak  air :  come,  I  will  bear  thee  to  some 
shelter ;  and  thou  shalt  not  die  for  lack  of 
a  dinner,  if  there  live  any  thing  in  this 
desert.  Cheerly,  good  Adam !  Exeunt 


SCENE  VU—  THE  FOREST 


A  table  set  out     Enter  DUKE  senior, 
AMIENS,  and  LORDS  like  outlaws. 

Duke  Senior.    I  think  he  be  transformed 

into  a  beast; 

For  I  can  no  where  find  him  like  a  man. 
First  Lord.    My  lord,  he  is  but  even  now 

gone  hence : 

Here  was  he  merry,  hearing  of  a  song. 
Duke  Senior.    If  he,  compact  of  jars,  grow 

musical, 

We  shall  have  shortly  discord  in  the  spheres. 
Go,  seek  him :  tell  him  I  would  speak  with 

him. 

Enter  JAQUES. 
First  Lord.    He  saves  my  labour  by  his 

own  approach. 
Duke  Senior.    Why,  how  now,  monsieur  1 

what  a  life  is  this, 
That  your  poor  friends  must  woo  your 

company  ? 

What,  you  look  merrily ! 
Jaques.    A  fool,  a  fool!    I  met  a  fool  f 

the  forest, 

A  motley  fool ;  a  miserable  world  I 
As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool ; 
Who  laid  him  down  and  basked  him  in  the 

sun, 
And   railed  on   Lady    Fortune  in    good 

terms, 
In  good  set  terms,  and  yet  a  motley  fool 

45 


*  Good  morrow,  fool/  quoth  L     *  No,  sir/ 

quoth  he, 
4  Call  me  not  fool  till  heaven  hath  sent  me 

fortune :  * 

And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke, 
And,  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye, 
Says  very  wisely, '  It  is  ten  o'clock : 
Thus  we  may  see/  quoth  he, '  how  the 

world  wags : 

'T  is  but  an  hour  ago  since  it  was  nine ; 
And  after  one  hour  more  't  will  be  eleven ; 
And  so,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  ripe  and 

ripe, 
And  then,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  rot  and 

rot; 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale/    When  I  did 

hear 

The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 
My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 
That  fools  should  be  so  deep-contemplative ; 
And  I  did  laugh  sans  intermission 
An  hour  by  his  dial.     O  noble  fool ! 
A  worthy  fool !    Motley 's  the  only  wear. 
Duke  Senior.    What  fool  is  this  ? 
Jaques.    O  worthy  fool !    One  that  hath 

been  a  courtier, 

And  says,  if  ladies  be  but  young  and  fair, 
They  have  the  gift  to  know  it :  and  in  his 

brain, 

Which  is  as  dry  as  the  remainder  biscuit 
After  a  voyage,  he  hath  strange  places 

crammed 
With  observation,  the  which  he  vents 

46 


And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke, 
And  looking  on  it  with  lack  lustre  eye 
Says  very  •wisely,  **  It  is  ten  o'  clock/' 


In  mangled  forms.     O  that  I  were  a  fool ! 
I  am  ambitious  for  a  motley  coat. 
Duke  Senior.    Thou  shalt  have  one. 
Jaques.  It  is  my  only  suit ; 

Provided  that  you  weed  your  better  judge- 
ments 

Of  all  opinion  that  grows  rank  in  them 
That  I  am  wise.    I  must  have  liberty 
Withal,  as  large  a  charter  as  the  wind, 
To  blow  on  whom  I  please ;  for  so  fools 

have; 
And  they  that  are  most  galled  with  my 

My, 
They  most  must  laugh.    And  why,  sir, 

must  they  so  ? 
The  'why'  is  plain  as  way  to   parish 

church: 

He  that  a  fool  doth  very  wisely  hit 
Doth  very  foolishly,  although  he  smart, 
Not  to  seem  senseless  of  the  bob :  if  not, 
The  wise  man's  folly  is  anatomized 
Even  by  the  squandering  glances  of  the  fool. 
Invest  me  in  my  motley ;  give  me  leave 
To  speak  my  mind,  and  I  will  through  and 

through 

Cleanse  the  foul  body  of  the  infected  world, 
If  they  will  patiently  receive  my  medicine. 
Duke  Senior.     Fie  on  thee!    I  can  tell 

what  thou  wouldst  do. 
Jaques.    What,  for  a  counter,  would  I  do 

but  good? 
Duke  Senior.    Most  mischievous  foul  sin, 

in  chiding  sin : 

47 


W5MA 

^l/  -VAX 


Wff 


For  thou  thyself  hast  been  a  libertine, 
As  sensual  as  the  brutish  sting  itself; 
And  all  the  embossed  sores  and  headed 

evils, 
That  thou  with  license  of  free  foot  hast 

caught, 
Wouldst  thou  disgorge  into  the  general 

world* 

Jaques.    Why,  who  cries  out  on  pride, 
That  can  therein  tax  any  private  party  ? 
Doth  it  not  flow  as  hugely  as  the  sea, 
Till  that  the  weary  very  means  do  ebb  ? 
What  woman  in  the  city  do  I  name, 
When  that  I  say  the  city-woman  bears 
The  cost  of  princes  on  unworthy  shoulders  ? 
Who  can  come  in  and  say  that  I  mean  her, 
When  such  a  one  as  she  such  is  her  neigh- 
bour? 

Or  what  is  he  of  basest  function, 
That  says  his  bravery  is  not  on  my  cost, 
Thinking  that  I  mean  him,  but  therein 

suits 

His  folly  to  the  mettle  of  my  speech  ? 
There  then ;  how  then  ?  what  then  ?  Let 

me  see  wherein 
My  tongue  hath  wronged  him :  if  it  do  him 

right, 
Then  he  hath  wrongM  himself;  if  he  be 

free, 
Why  then  my  taxing  like  a  wild-goose 

flies, 
Unclaimed  of  any  man.       But  who  comes 

here? 

48 


Enter     ORLANDO,     %>#£      his     sword 

drawn. 

Orlando.    Forbear,  and  cat  no  more. 

Jaques.  Why,  I  have  eat  none  yet. 

Orlando.  Nor  shall  not,  till  necessity  be 
served. 

Jaques.  Of  what  kind  should  this  cock 
come  of  ? 

Duke  Senior.  Art  thou  thus  bolden'd,  man, 
by  thy  distress  ? 

Or  else  a  rude  despiser  of  good  manners, 

That  in  civility  thou  seem  'st  so  empty  ? 

Orlando.  You  touched  my  vein  at  first : 
the  thorny  point 

Of  bare  distress  hath  ta'en  from  me  the 
show 

Of  smooth  civility :  yet  am  I  inland  bred 

And  know  some  nurture.  But  forbear,  I 
say: 

He  dies  that  touches  any  of  this  fruit 

Till  I  and  my  affairs  are  answered. 

Jaques.    An  you  will  not  be  answered 

with  reason,  I  must  die. 

Duke  Senior.  What  would  you  have? 
Your  gentleness  shall  force, 

More  than  your  force  move  us  to  gentle- 
ness. 

Orlando.  I  almost  die  for  food;  and  let 
me  have  it. 

Duke  Senior.  Sit  down  and  feed,  and  wel- 
come to  our  table. 

Orlando.  Speak  you  so  gently  ?  Pardon 
me,  I  pray  you : 

4  49 


I  thought  that  all  things  had  been  savage 

here; 

And  therefore  put  I  on  the  countenance 
Of  stern    commandment.      But  whatever 

you  are 

That  in  this  desert  inaccessible, 
Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs, 
Lose  and  neglect  the  creeping  hours  of  time ; 
If  ever  you  have  looked  on  better  days, 
If  ever  been  where  bells  have  knoll'd  to 

church, 

If  ever  sat  at  any  good  man's  feast, 
If  ever  from  your  eyelids  wiped  a  tear 
And  know  what 't  is  to  pity  and  be  pitied, 
Let  gentleness  my  strong  enforcement  be : 
In  the  which  hope  I  blusht  and  hide  my 

sword* 
Duke  Senior.    True  is  it  that  we  have 

seen  better  days, 
And  have  with  holy  bell  been  knoll'd  to 

church, 
And  sat  at  good  men's  feasts,  and  wiped 

our  eyes 

Of  drops  that  sacred  pity  hath  engendered : 
And  therefore  sit  you  down  in  gentleness 
And  take  upon  command  what  help  we 

have 

That  to  your  wanting  may  be  minister'd. 
Orlando.    Then  but  forbear  your  food  a 

little  while, 

Whiles,  like  a  doe,  I  go  to  find  my  fawn 
And  give  it  food.    There  is  an  old  poor 

man, 


Who  after  me  hath  many  a  weary  step 
Limped  in  pure  love :  till  he  be  first  sufficed, 
Oppressed  with  two  weak  evils,  age  and 

hunger, 

I  will  not  touch  a  bit. 

Duke  Senior.  Go  find  him  out, 

And  we  will  nothing  waste  till  you  return. 
Orlando.  I  thank  ye;  and  be  blest  for 

your  good  comfort !  Exit 

Duke  Senior.    Thou  seest  we  are  not  all 

alone  unhappy : 

This  wide  and  universal  theatre 
Presents  more  woeful  pageants  than  the 

scene 

Wherein  we  play  in. 

Jaques.  All  the  world 's  a  stage, 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players : 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many 

parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.      At  first  the 

infant, 

Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms. 
Then  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his 

satchel 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like 

snail 

Unwillingly  to  school.  And  then  the  lover, 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woeful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow.  Then  a 

soldier, 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the 

pard, 

51 


Jealous  in  honour,  sudden  and  quick  in 

quarrel, 

Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 
Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth.    And  then 

the  justice, 

In  fair  round  belly  with  good  capon  lined, 
With  eyes  severe  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances ; 
And  so  he  plays  his  part.    The  sixth  age 

shifts 

Into  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon, 
With  spectacles  on  nose  and  pouch  on  side, 
His  youthful  hose,  well  saved,  a  world  too 

wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank ;  and  his  big  manly 

voice, 

Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound.    Last  scene  of 

all, 

That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history, 
Is  second  childishness  and  mere  oblivion, 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  every 

thing. 

Re-enter  ORLANDO  with  ADAM. 

Duke  Senior.    Welcome.    Set  down  your 

venerable  burthen, 
And  let  him  feed. 

Orlando.    I  thank  you  most  for  him. 
Adam.  So  had  you  need : 

I  scarce  can  speak  to  thank  you  for  myself. 
Duke  Senior.    Welcome ;  f  all  to :  I  will  not 

trouble  you 

52 


As  yet,  to  question  you  about  your  fortunes. 
Give  us  some  music;   and,  good  cousin, 

sing. 

SONG. 

Amiens.    Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh-ho !  sing,  heigh-ho !  unto  the  green 

holly: 

Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving 
mere  folly : 

Then,  heigh-ho,  the  holly ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remetnber'd  not. 
Heigh-ho !  sing,  &c. 

Duke  Senior.    If  that  you  were  the  good 

Sir  Rowland's  son, 

As  you  have  whisper'd  faithfully  you  were, 
And  as  mine  eye  doth  his  effigies  witness 
Most  truly  limn'd  and  living  in  your  face, 
Be  truly  welcome  hither :  I  am  the  Duke 
That  loved  your  father:  the  residue  of 

your  fortune, 
Go  to  my  cave  and  tell  me.    Good  old  man, 

53 


Thou  art  right  welcome  as  thy  master  is. 
Support  him  by  the  arm.    Give  me  your 

hand, 

And  let  me  all  your  fortunes  understand. 

Exeunt 


Enter  DUKE  FREDERICK,  LORDS,   am/' 

OLIVER. 

Duke  Frederick.    Not  see  him  since  ?    Sir, 

sir,  that  cannot  be : 
But  were  I  not  the  better  part  made  mercy, 
I  should  not  seek  an  absent  argument 
Of  my  revenge,  thou  present.  But  look  to  it : 
Find  out  thy  brother,  wheresoe'er  he  is ; 
Seek  him  with  candle ;  bring  him  dead  or 

living 
Within  this  twelvemonth,  or  turn  thou  no 

more 

To  seek  a  living  in  our  territory. 
Thy  lands  and  all  things  that  thou  dost  call 

thine 

Worth  seizure  do  we  seae  into  our  hands, 
Till  thou  canst  quit  thee  by  thy  brother's 

mouth 

Of  what  we  think  against  thee. 
Oliver.    O  that  your  Highness  knew  my 

heart  in  this ! 

I  never  loved  my  brother  in  my  life. 
Duke  Frederick.    More  villain  thou.    Well, 

push  him  out  of  doors ; 
And  let  my  officers  of  such  a  nature 
Make  an  extent  upon  his  house  and  lands : 
Do  this  expediently  and  turn  him  going. 

Exeunt 


57 


SCENE  //-THE  FOREST 


Enter  ORLANDO,  with  a  paper. 

Orlando.    Hang  there,  my  verse,  in  witness 

of  my  love : 
And  thou,  thrice-crowned  queen  of  night, 

survey 
With  thy  chaste  eye,  from  thy  pale  sphere 

above, 
Thy  huntress'  name  that  my  full  life  doth 

sway, 

O  Rosalind !  these  trees  shall  be  my  books 
And  in  their    barks  my  thoughts  I'll 

character; 

That  every  eye  which  in  this  forest  looks 
Shall    see   thy  virtue    witnessed  every 
where. 

58 


mm 

.  %-jsNwdr 


"Hang  there,  my  verse,  in  witness  of  my  love." 


Run,  run,  Orlando;  carve  on  every  tree 
The  fair,  the  chaste  and  unexpressive  she. 

Exit. 

Enter  CORIN  and  TOUCHSTONE. 
Cortn.  And  how  like  you  this  shepherd's 
life,  Master  Touchstone  ? 
Touchstone.  Truly,  shepherd,  in  respect 
of  itself,  it  is  a  good  life ;  but  in  respect  that 
it  is  a  shepherd's  life,  it  is  naught*  In  re- 
spect that  it  is  solitary,  I  like  it  very  well ; 
but  in  respect  that  it  is  private,  it  is  a  very 
vile  life.  Now,  in  respect  it  is  in  the  fields, 
it  pleaseth  me  well ;  but  in  respect  it  is  not 
in  the  court,  it  is  tedious.  As  it  is  a  spare 
life,  look  you,  it  fits  my  humour  well ;  but 
as  there  is  no  more  plenty  in  it,  it  goes 
much  against  my  stomach.  Hast  any 
philosophy  in  thee,  shepherd  ? 
Conn.  No  more  but  that  I  know  the  more 
one  sickens  the  worse  at  ease  he  is ;  and 
that  he  that  wants  money,  means  and  con- 
tent is  without  three  good  friends ;  that  the 
property  of  rain  is  to  wet  and  fire  to  burn ; 
that  good  pasture  makes  fat  sheep,  and  that 
a  great  cause  of  the  night  is  lack  of  the  sun ; 
that  he  that  hath  learned  no  wit  by  nature 
nor  art  may  complain  of  good  breeding  or 
comes  of  a  very  dull  kindred, 
Touchstone.  Such  a  one  is  a  natural 
philosopher.  Wast  ever  in  court,  shep- 
herd? 

Corin.    No,  truly, 
Touchstone.     Then  thou  art  damned* 

59 


Conn.     Nay,  I  hope. 

Touchstone.    Truly,  thou  art  damned,  like 
an  ill-roasted  egg  all  on  one  side, 
Corin.     For  not  being  at   court?    Your 
reason. 

Touchstone.  Why,  if  thou  never  wast  at 
court,  thou  never  sawest  good  manners ; 
if  thou  never  sawest  good  manners, 
then  thy  manners  must  be  wicked;  and 
wickedness  is  sin,  and  sin  is  damnation. 
Thou  art  in  a  parlous  state,  shepherd. 
Corin.  Not  a  whit,  Touchstone :  those  that 
are  good  manners  at  the  court  are  as  ridic- 
ulous in  the  country  as  the  behaviour  of 
the  country  is  most  mockable  at  the  court. 
You  told  me  you  salute  not  at  the  court, 
but  you  kiss  your  hands:  that  courtesy 
would  be  uncleanly,  if  courtiers  were  shep- 
herds. 

Touchstone.     Instance,  briefly ;  come,  in- 
stance. 

Corin.  Why,  we  are  still  handling  our 
ewes,  and  their  fells,  you  know,  are 
greasy. 

Touchstone.    Why,  do  not  your  courtier's 
hands  sweat?  and  is  not  the  grease  of  a 
mutton  as  wholesome  as  the  sweat  of  a 
man?    Shallow,    shallow.    A  better    in- 
stance, I  say ;  come. 
Corin.     Besides,  our  hands  are  hard, 
Touchstone.    Your  lips  will  feel  them  the 
sooner.    Shallow  again,     A  more  sounder 
instance,  come. 

60 


Conn.  And  they  are  often  tarred  over 
with  the  surgery  of  our  sheep ;  and  would 
you  have  us  kiss  tar  ?  The  courtier's  hands 
are  perfumed  with  civet, 
Touchstone*  Most  shallow  man!  thou 
worm's-meat,  in  respect  of  a  good  piece  of 
flesh  indeed  I  Learn  of  the  wise,  and  per- 
pend :  civet  is  of  a  baser  birth  than  tar,  the 
very  uncleanly  flux  of  a  cat.  Mend  the 
instance,  shepherd. 

Conn.     You  have  too  courtly  a  wit  for 
me:  Til  rest. 

Touchstone.  Wilt  thou  rest  damned? 
God  help  thee,  shallow  man !  God  make 
incision  in  thee !  thou  art  raw* 
Conn.  Sir,  I  am  a  true  labourer:  I  earn 
that  I  eat,  get  that  I  wear,  owe  no  man 
hate,  envy  no  man's  happiness,  glad  of 
other  men's  good,  content  with  my  harm, 
and  the  greatest  of  my  pride  is  to  see  my 
ewes  graze  and  my  lambs  suck. 
Touchstone.  That  is  another  simple  sin 
in  you,  to  bring  the  ewes  and  the  rams 
together  and  to  offer  to  get  your  living  by 
the  copulation  of  cattle ;  to  be  bawd  to  a 
bell-wether,  and  to  betray  a  she-lamb  of  a 
twelvemonth  to  a  crooked-pated,  old,  cuck- 
oldly  ram,  out  of  all  reasonable  match.  If 
thou  beest  not  damned  for  this,  the  devil 
himself  will  have  no  shepherds;  I  cannot 
see  else  how  thou  shouldst  'scape. 
Conn.  Here  comes  young  Master  Gany- 
mede, my  new  mistress's  brother, 

61 


m 


Enter  ROSALIND,  with  a  paper,  reading. 
Rosalind.    From  the  east  to  western  Ind, 

No  jewel  is  like  Rosalind. 

Her  worth,  being  mounted  on  the  wind 

Through  all  the  world  bears  Rosalind. 

All  the  pictures  fairest  lined 

Are  but  black  to  Rosalind. 

Let  no  face  be  kept  in  mind 

But  the  fair  of  Rosalind. 

Touchstone.    1 11  rhyme  you  so  eight  years 
together,  dinners  and  suppers  and  sleeping- 
hours  excepted:    it  is  the    right    butter- 
women's  rank  to  market. 
Rosalind.     Out,  fool ! 
Touchstone.    For  a  taste : 

If  a  hart  do  lack  a  hind, 

Let  him  seek  out  Rosalind. 

If  the  cat  will  after  kind, 

So  be  sure  will  Rosalind. 

Winter  garments  must  be  lined, 

So  must  slender  Rosalind. 

They  that  reap  must  sheaf  and  bind ; 

Then  to  cart  with  Rosalind. 

Sweetest  nut  hath  sourest  rind, 

Such  a  nut  is  Rosalind. 

He  that  sweetest  rose  will  find, 

Must  find  love's  prick  and  Rosalind. 

This  is  the  very  false  gallop  of  verses :  why 
do  you  infect  yourself  with  them  ? 
Rosalind.    Peace,  you  dull  fool!   I  found 
them  on  a  tree. 

62 


Touchstone.    Truly,  the  tree  yields  bad 

fruit, 

Rosalind.    I  '11  graff  it  with  you,  and  then 

I  shall  graff  it  with  a  medlar :  then  it  will 

be  the  earliest  fruit  i'  the  country ;  for  you  '11 

be  rotten  ere  you  be  half  ripe,  and  that 's 

the  right  virtue  of  the  medlar. 

Touchstone.    You  have  said;  but  whether 

wisely  or  no,  let  the  forest  judge. 

Enter  CELIA,  with  a,  writing. 

Rosalind.    Peace  I 

Here  comes  my  sister,  reading :  stand  aside. 

Celia.    [Reads']  Why  should  this  a  desert 

be? 

For  it  is  unpeopled  ?  No ; 
Tongues  1 11  hang  on  every  tree, 
That  shall  civil  sayings  show : 
Some,  how  brief  the  life  of  man 

Runs  his  erring  pilgrimage, 
That  the  stretching  of  a  span 
Buckles  in  his  sum  of  age ; 
Some,  of  violated  vows 

'Twixt  the  souls  of  friend  and  friend : 
But  upon  the  fairest  boughs, 
Or  at  every  sentence  end, 
Will  I  Rosalinda  write, 

Teaching  all  that  read  to  know 
The  quintessence  of  every  sprite 
Heaven  would  in  little  show. 
Therefore  Heaven  Nature  charged 

That  one  body  should  be  fill'd 
With  all  graces  wide-enlarged ; 
Nature  presently  distilPd 

63 


Helen's  cheek,  but  not  her  heart, 
Cleopatra's  majesty, 

Atalanta's  better  part, 

Sad  Lucretia's  modesty. 
Thus  Rosalind  of  many  parts 

By  heavenly  synod  was  devised; 
Of  many  faces,  eyes  and  hearts, 

To  have  the  touches  dearest  prized, 
Heaven  would  that  she  these  gifts  should 

have, 

And  I  to  live  and  die  her  slave. 
Rosalind.     O  most  gentle  pulpiter!  what 
tedious  homily  of  love  have  you  wearied 
your  parishioners  withal,  and  never  cried 
'  Have  patience,  good  people ! ' 
Celia.    How  now!   back,  friends!   Shep- 
herd, go  off  a  little.     Go  with  him,  sirrah. 
Touchstone.    Come,  shepherd,  let  us  make 
an  honourable  retreat ;  though  not  with  bag 
and  baggage,  yet  with  scrip  and  scrippage. 
Exeunt  CORDST  and  TOUCHSTONE. 
Celia.     Didst  thou  hear  these  verses  ? 
Rosalind.    O,  yes,  I  heard  them  all,  and 
more  too;  for  some  of  them  had  in  them 
more  feet  than  the  verses  would  bear. 
Celia.     That 's  no  matter :  the  feet  might 
bear  the  verses. 

Rosalind.  Ay,  but  the  feet  were  lame  and 
could  not  bear  themselves  without  the  verse 
and  therefore  stood  lamely  in  the  verse. 
Celia.  But  didst  thou  hear  without  won- 
dering how  thy  name  should  be  hanged 
and  carved  upon  these  trees  ? 

64 


Rosalind.  I  was  seven  of  the  nine  days 
out  of  the  wonder  before  you  came;  for 
look  here  what  I  found  on  a  palm  tree*  I 
was  never  so  be-rhymed  since  Pythagoras' 
time,  that  I  was  an  Irish  rat,  which  I  can 
hardly  remember. 

Celia.    Trow  you  who  hath  done  this  ? 
Rosalind.    Is  it  a  man  ? 
Celia.    And  a  chain,  that  you  once  wore, 
about  his  neck.    Change  you  colour  ? 
Rosalind.    I  prithee,  who  ? 
Celia.     O  Lord,  Lord  I  it  is  a  hard  matter 
for  friends  to  meet ;  but  mountains  may  be 
removed    with    earthquakes  and    so    en- 
counter. 

Rosalind.    Nay,  but  who  is  it  ? 
Celia,     Is  it  possible? 
Rosalind.      Nay,    I    prithee    now    with 
most  petitionary  vehemence,  tell  me  who 
it  is. 

Celia.  O  wonderful,  wonderful,  and  most 
wonderful  wonderful !  and  yet  again  won- 
derful, and  after  that,  out  of  all  hooping ! 
Rosalind.  Good  my  complexion  I  dost  thou 
think,  though  I  am  caparisoned  like  a  man, 
I  have  a  doublet  and  hose  in  my  disposition  ? 
One  inch  of  delay  more  is  a  South-sea  of 
discovery ;  I  prithee,  tell  me  who  is  it  quickly, 
and  speak  apace.  I  would  thou  couldst 
stammer,  that  thou  might'st  pour  this  con- 
cealed man  out  of  thy  mouth,  as  wine 
comes  out  of  a  narrow-mouthed  bottle, 
either  too  much  at  once,  or  none  at  all.  I 

5  65 


prithee,  take  the  cork  out  of  thy  mouth  that 
I  may  drink  thy  tidings. 
Celia.    So  you  may  put  a  man  in  your 
belly. 

Rosalind.    Is  he  of  God's  making  ?  What 
manner  of  man  ?  Is  his  head  worth  a  hat  ? 
Or  his  chin  worth  a  beard  ? 
Celia.     Nay,  he  hath  but  a  little  beard. 
Rosalind.    Why,  God  will  send  more,  if 
the  man  will  be  thankful :  let  me  stay  the 
growth  of  his  beard,  if  thou  delay  me  not 
the  knowledge  of  his  chin, 
Celia.    It  is  young  Orlando,  that  tripped  up 
the  wrestler's  heels  and  your  heart  both  in 
an  instant. 

Rosalind.    Nay,  but  the  devil  take  mock- 
ing :  speak  sad  brow  and  true  maid. 
Celia.    F  faith,  coz,  't  is  he, 
Rosalind.    Orlando  ? 
Celia.    Orlando. 

Rosalind.  Alas  the  day !  what  shall  I  do 
with  my  doublet  and  hose  ?  What  did  he 
when  thou  sawest  him  ?  What  said  he  ? 
How  looked  he  ?  Wherein  went  he  ?  What 
makes  he  here  ?  Did  he  ask  for  me  ?  Where 
remains  he?  How  parted  he  with  thee? 
and  when  shalt  thou  see  him  again  ?  An- 
swer me  in  one  word. 
Celia.  You  must  borrow  me  Gargantua's 
mouth  first :  't  is  a  word  too  great  for  any 
mouth  of  this  age's  size.  To  say  ay  and 
no  to  these  particulars  is  more  than  to 
answer  in  a  catechism. 

66 


Rosalind.    But  doth  he  know  that  I  am  in 
this  forest  and  in  man's  apparel  ?    Looks 
he  as  freshly  as  he  did  the  day  he  wrestled  ? 
Celia.     It  is  as  easy  to  count  atomies  as  to 
resolve  the  propositions  of  a  lover ;  but  take 
a  taste  of  my  finding  him,  and  relish  it  with 
good  observance,     I  found  him  under  a 
tree,  like  a  dropped  acorn. 
Rosalind.    It  may  well  be  called  Jove's 
tree,  when  it  drops  forth  such  fruit* 
Celia.     Give  me  audience,  good  madam. 
Rosalind.     Proceed* 

Celia.    There  lay  he,  stretched  along,  like 
a  wounded  knight. 

Rosalind.     Though  it  be  pity  to  see  such  a 
sight,  it  well  becomes  the  ground* 
Celia.     Cry    'holla'    to    thy    tongue,    I 
prithee ;  it  curvets  unseasonably.    He  was 
furnished  like  a  hunter. 
Rosalind.     O,  ominous !  he  comes  to  kill 
my  heart. 

Celia.     I  would  sing  my  song  without  a 
burden :  thou  bringest  me  out  of  tune. 
Rosalind.    Do  you    not  know  I  am    a 
woman?    when  I    think,  I    must  speak. 
Sweet,  say  on. 

Celia.     You  bring  me  out.     Soft!  comes 
he  not  here? 

Enter  ORLANDO  anc/jAQUES. 
Rosalind.    T  is  he:  slink  by,  and  note  him. 
Jaques.     I  thank  you  for  your  company ; 
but,  good  faith,  I  had  as  lief  have  been  my- 
self alone. 

67 


Orlando.  And  so  had  I ;  but  yet,  for  fashion 
sake, 

I  thank  you  too  for  your  society. 
Jaques.    God  buy  you :  let  *s  meet  as  little 
as  we  can. 

Orlando.  I  do  desire  we  may  be  better 
strangers. 

Jaques.    I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  trees 
with  writing  love-songs  in  their  barks. 
Orlando.    I  pray  you,  mar  no  moe  of  my 
verses  with  reading  them  ill-favouredly, 
Jaques.    Rosalind  is  your  love's  name  ? 
Orlando.    Yes,  just. 
Jaques.    I  do  not  like,  her  name. 
Orlando.    There  was  no  thought  of  pleas- 
ing you  when  she  was  christened. 
Jaques,    What  stature  is  she  of? 
Orlando.    Just  as  high  as  my  heart. 
Jaques.    You  are  full  of  pretty  answers. 
Have  you  not  been  acquainted  with  gold- 
smiths' wives,  and  conned  them  out   of 
rings? 

Orlando.  Not  so ;  but  I  answer  you  right 
painted  cloth,  from  whence  you  have  stud- 
ied your  questions. 

Jaques.  You  have  a  nimble  wit :  I  think 
't  was  made  of  Atalanta's  heels.  Will  you 
sit  down  with  me  ?  and  we  two  will  rail 
against  our  mistress  the  world,  and  all  our 
misery. 

Orlando.  I  will  chide  no  breather  in  the 
world  but  myself,  against  whom  I  know 
most  faults. 

68 


i/  f'1 


m 


Jaques.    The  worst  fault  you  have  is  to 
be  in  love. 

Orlando.    T  is  a  fault  I  will  not  change 
for  your  best  virtue.    I  am  weary  of  you. 
Jaques.    By  my  troth,  I  was  seeking  for 
a  fool  when  I  found  you. 
Orlando.    He  is  drowned  in  the  brook: 
look  but  in,  and  you  shall  see  him. 
Jaques.     There  I    shall  see    mine    own 
figure. 

Orlando.  Which  I  take  to  be  either  a  fool 
or  a  cipher. 

Jaques.     I'll  tarry  no  longer  with  you: 
farewell,  good  Signior  Love. 
Orlando.    I  am  glad  of  your  departure: 
adieu,  good  Monsieur  Melancholy. 

Exit  JAQUES. 

Rosalind.  [Aside  to  Celia.}  I  will  speak  to 
him  like  a  saucy  lackey,  and  under  that 
habit  play  the  knave  with  him.  Do  you 
hear,  forester  ? 

Orlando.     Very  well :  what  would  you  ? 
Rosalind.     I  pray  you,  what  is 't  o'clock  ? 
Orlando.     You  should  ask  me  what  time 
o'  day :  there 's  no  clock  in  the  forest* 
Rosalind.     Then  there  is  no  true  lover  in 
the  forest;  else  sighing  every  minute  and 
groaning  every  hour  would  detect  the  lazy 
foot  of  Time  as  well  as  a  clock. 
Orlando.    And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of 
Time  ?  had  not  that  been  as  proper  ? 
Rosalind.     By  no  means,  sir :  Time  travels 
in  divers  paces  with  divers  persons.    Ill 

69 


tell  you  who  Time  ambles  withal,  who 
Time  trots  withal,  who  Time  gallops  withal 
and  who  he  stands  still  withal, 
Orlando.    I    prithee,  who    doth  he    trot 
withal? 

Rosalind.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a 
young  maid  between  the  contract  of  her 
marriage  and  the  day  it  is  solemnized :  if 
the  interim  be  but  a  se'n  night,  Time's  pace 
is  so  hard  that  it  seems  the  length  of  seven 
year, 

Orlando.     Who  ambles  Time  withal  ? 
Rosalind.     With  a  priest  that  lacks  Latin, 
and  a  rich  man  that  hath  not  the  gout ;  for 
the  one  sleeps  easily  because  he  cannot 
study,  and  the  other  lives  merrily  because 
he  feels  no  pain ;  the  one  lacking  the  burden 
of  lean  and  wasteful  learning,  the  other 
knowing    no    burden    of    heavy    tedious 
penury :  these  Time  ambles  withal, 
Orlando.     Who  doth  he  gallop  withal? 
Rosalind.     With  a  thief  to  the  gallows; 
for  though  he  go  as  softly  as  foot  can  fall, 
he  thinks  himself  too  soon  there. 
Orlando.    Who  stays  it  still  withal  ? 
Rosalind.     With  lawyers  in  the  vacation ; 
for  they    sleep   between   term    and  term 
and  then  they  perceive  not  how  Time 
moves. 

Orlando.  Where  dwell  you,  pretty  youth  ? 
Rosalind.  With  this  shepherdess,  my 
sister :  here  in  the  skirts  of  the  forest,  like 
fringe  upon  a  petticoat. 

70 


Orlando.    Are  you  native  of  this  place  ? 
Rosalind.     As  the  cony  that  you  see  dwell 
where  she  is  kindled 

Orlando.  Your  accent  is  something  finer 
than  you  could  purchase  in  so  removed  a 
dwelling. 

Rosalind.  I  have  been  told  so  of  many : 
but  indeed  an  old  religious  uncle  of  mine 
taught  me  to  speak,  who  was  in  his  youth 
an  inland  man ;  one  that  knew  courtship 
too  well,  for  there  he  fell  in  love*  I  have 
heard  him  read  many  lectures  against  it, 
and  I  thank  God  I  am  not  a  woman,  to  be 
touched  with  so  many  giddy  offences  as 
he  hath  generally  taxed  their  whole  sex 
withal, 

Orlando.  Can  you  remember  any  of  the 
principal  evils  that  he  laid  to  the  charge  of 
women  ? 

Rosalind.  There  were  none  principal; 
they  were  all  like  one  another  as  half-pence 
are,  every  one  fault  seeming  monstrous  till 
his  fellow-fault  came  to  match  it, 
Orlando.  I  prithee,  recount  some  of 
them. 

Rosalind.  No,  I  will  not  cast  away  my 
physic  but  on  those  that  are  sick.  There 
is  a  man  haunts  the  forest,  that  abuses  our 
young  plants  with  carving  Rosalind  on 
their  barks;  hangs  odes  upon  hawthorns 
and  elegies  on  brambles ;  all,  forsooth,  deify- 
ing the  name  of  Rosalind :  if  I  could  meet 
that  fancy-monger,  I  would  give  him  some 

71 


in 


good  counsel,  for  he  seems  to  have  the 
quotidian  of  love  upon  him. 
Orlando.  I  am  he  that  is  so  love-shaked : 
I  pray  you,  tell  me  your  remedy. 
Rosalind.  There  is  none  of  my  uncle's 
marks  upon  you:  he  taught  me  how  to 
know  a  man  in  love;  in  which  cage  of 
rushes  I  am  sure  you  are  not  prisoner. 
Orlando.  What  were  his  marks  ? 
Rosalind.  A  lean  cheek,  which  you  have 
not ;  a  blue  eye  and  sunken,  which  you  have 
not;  an  unquestionable  spirit,  which  you 
have  not;  a  beard  neglected,  which  you 
have  not ;  but  I  pardon  you  for  that,  for 
simply  your  having  in  beard  is  a  younger 
brother's  revenue :  then  your  hose  should 
be  ungartered,  your  bonnet  unbanded,  your 
sleeve  unbuttoned,  your  shoe  untied  and 
everything  about  you  demonstrating  a  care- 
less desolation ;  but  you  are  no  such  man ; 
you  are  rather  point-device  in  your  accou- 
trements, as  loving  yourself  than  seeming 
the  lover  of  any  other. 
Orlando.  Fair  youth,  I  would  I  could 
make  thee  believe  I  love. 
Rosalind.  Me  believe  it!  you  may  as 
soon  make  her  that  you  love  believe  it; 
which,  I  warrant,  she  is  apter  to  do  than  to 
confess  she  does :  that  is  one  of  the  points 
in  the  which  women  still  give  the  lie  to  their 
consciences.  But,  in  good  sooth,  are  you 
he  that  hangs  the  verses  on  the  trees,  where- 
in Rosalind  is  so  admired  ? 

72 


Orlando.  I  swear  to  thee,  youth,  by  the 
white  hand  of  Rosalind,  I  am  that  he,  that 
unfortunate  he. 

Rosalind.  But  are  you  so  much  in  love  as 
your  rhymes  speak  ? 

Orlando.  Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can 
express  how  much, 

Rosalind.  Love  is  merely  a  madness;  and, 
I  tell  you,  deserves  as  well  a  dark  house  and 
a  whip  as  madmen  do :  and  the  reason  why 
they  are  not  so  punished  and  cured  is,  that 
the  lunacy  is  so  ordinary  that  the  whippers 
are  in  love  too.  Yet  I  profess  curing  it  by 
counsel. 

Orlando.  Did  you  ever  cure  any  so  ? 
Rosalind.  Yes,  one,  and  in  this  manner. 
He  was  to  imagine  me  his  love,  his  mis- 
tress ;  and  I  set  him  every  day  to  woo  me : 
at  which  time  would  I,  being  but  a  moonish 
youth,  grieve,  be  effeminate,  changeable, 
longing  and  liking;  proud,  fantastical,  apish, 
shallow,  inconstant,  full  of  tears,  full  of 
smiles ;  for  every  passion  something  and  for 
no  passion  truly  any  thing,  as  boys  and 
women  are  for  the  most  part  cattle  of  this 
colour:  would  now  like  him,  now  loathe 
him ;  then  entertain  him,  then  forswear  him ; 
now  weep  for  him,  then  spit  at  him ;  that  I 
drave  my  suitor  from  his  mad  humour  of 
love  to  a  living  humour  of  madness ;  which 
was,  to  forswear  the  full  stream  of  the  world 
and  to  live  in  a  nook  merely  monastic. 
And  thus  I  cured  him ;  and  this  way  will  I 

73 


take  upon  me  to  wash  your  liver  as  clean 
as  a  sound  sheep's  heart,  that  there  shall 
not  be  one  spot  of  love  in  't. 
Orlando.    I  would  not  be  cured,  youth. 
Rosalind.     I  would  cure  you,  if  you  would 
but  call  me  Rosalind  and  come  every  day 
to  my  cote  and  woo  me. 
Orlando.     Now,  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  I 
will :  tell  me  where  it  is. 
Rosalind.     Go  with  me  to  it  and  I  11  show 
it  you :  and  by  the  way  you  shall  tell  me 
where  in  the  forest  you  live.    Will  you  go  ? 
Orlando.     With  all  my  heart,  good  youth. 
Rosalind.     Nay,  you  must  call  me  Rosa- 
lind.   Come,  sister,  will  you  go  ? 

Exeunt 


Enter    TOUCHSTONE    and    AUDREY; 
JAQUES  behind. 

Touchstone.  Come  apace,  good  Audrey: 
I  will  fetch  up  your  goats,  Audrey.  And 
how,  Audrey  ?  am  I  the  man  yet  ?  doth  my 
simple  feature  content  you  ? 
Audrey.  Your  features!  Lord  warrant 
us !  what  features  ? 

Touchstone.    I  am  here  with  thee  and  thy 
goats,  as  the  most  capricious  poet,  honest 
Ovid,  was  among  the  Goths. 
Jaques.   [Aside.']   O  knowledge   ill-inhab- 
ited, worse  than  Jove  in  a  thatched  house ! 

74 


Touchstone.  When  a  man's  verses  cannot 
be  understood,  nor  a  man's  good  wit 
seconded  with  the  forward  child,  under- 
standing, it  strikes  a  man  more  dead  than  a 
great  reckoning  in  a  little  room.  Truly,  I 
would  the  gods  had  made  thee  poetical. 
Audrey.  I  do  not  know  what  'poetical' 
is :  is  it  honest  in  deed  and  word  ?  is  it  a 
true  thing  ? 

Touchstone.  No,  truly;  for  the  truest 
poetry  is  the  most  feigning ;  and  lovers  are 
given  to  poetry,  and  what  they  swear  in 
poetry  may  be  said  as  lovers  they  do  feign. 
Audrey.  Do  you  wish  then  that  the  gods 
had  made  me  poetical  ? 
Touchstone.  I  do,  truly ;  for  thou  swear- 
est  to  me  thou  art  honest :  now,  if  thou  wert 
a  poet,  I  might  have  some  hope  thou  didst 
feign. 

Audrey.    Would  you  not  have  me  honest  ? 
Touchstone.    No,  truly,  unless  thou  wert 
hard-favoured;     for    honesty    coupled    to 
beauty  is  to  have  honey  a  sauce  to  sugar. 
Jaques.  [Aside.'}  A  material  fool ! 
Audrey.    Well,  I  am  not  fair ;  and  there- 
fore I  pray  the  gods  make  me  honest. 
Touchstone.    Truly,  and  to    cast    away 
honesty  upon  a  foul  slut  were  to  put  good 
meat  into  an  unclean  dish. 
Audrey.     I  am  not  a  slut,  though  I  thank 
the  gods  I  am  foul. 

Touchstone.    Well,  praised  be  the  gods  for 
thy  foulness  1  sluttishness  may  come  here- 

75 


after.  But  be  it  as  it  may  be,  I  will  marry 
thee,  and  to  that  end  I  have  been  with  Sir 
Oliver  Martext  the  vicar  of  the  next  village, 
who  hath  promised  to  meet  me  in  this  place 
of  the  forest  and  to  couple  us. 
Jaques.  [  Aside.  ]  I  would  fain  see  this 
meeting. 

Audrey.  Well,  the  gods  give  us  joy  I 
Touchstone.  Amen.  A  man  may,  if  he 
were  of  a  fearful  heart,  stagger  in  this 
attempt ;  for  here  we  have  no  temple  but 
the  wood,  no  assembly  but  horn-beasts. 
But  what  though?  Courage!  As  horns  are 
odious,  they  are  necessary.  It  is  said, 
4  many  a  man  knows  no  end  of  his  goods : ' 
right ;  many  a  man  has  good  horns,  and 
knows  no  end  of  them.  Well,  that  is 
the  dowry  of  his  wife;  'tis  none  of  his 
own  getting.  Horns?  —  even  so:  —  poor 
men  alone  ?  No,  no ;  the  noblest  deer  hath 
them  as  huge  as  the  rascal.  Is  the  single 
man  therefore  blessed  ?  No ;  as  a  walled 
town  is  more  worthier  than  a  village,  so 
is  the  forehead  of  a  married  man  more 
honourable  than  the  bare  brow  of  a 
bachelor;  and  by  how  much  defence  is 
better  than  no  skill,  by  so  much  is  a  horn 
more  precious  than  to  want.  Here  comes 
Sir  Oliver. 

Enter  SIR  OLIVER  MARTEXT. 
Sir  Oliver  Martext,  you  are  well  met :  will 
you  dispatch  us  here  under  this  tree,  or 
shall  we  go  with  you  to  your  chapel  ? 

76 


Sir  Other,  Is  there  none  here  to  give  the 
woman? 

Touchstone.  I  will  not  take  her  on  gift  of 
any  man. 

Sir  Oliver.  Truly,  she  must  be  given,  or 
the  marriage  is  not  lawful. 
Jaques.  Proceed,  proceed:  III  give  her. 
Touchstone.  Good  even,  good  Master 
What-ye-call 't :  how  do  you,  sir?  You 
are  very  well  met :  God  'ild  you  for  your  last 
company :  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you:  even  a 
toy  in  hand  here,  sir :  nay,  pray  be  covered. 
Jaques.  Will  you  be  married,  motley  ? 
Touchstone.  As  the  ox  hath  his  bow,  sir, 
the  horse  his  curb  and  the  falcon  her  bells, 
so  man  hath  his  desires;  and  as  pigeons 
bill,  so  wedlock  would  be  nibbling. 
Jaques.  And  will  you,  being  a  man  of 
your  breeding,  be  married  under  a  bush  like 
a  beggar  ?  Get  you  to  church,  and  have  a 
good  priest  that  can  tell  you  what  marriage 
is :  this  fellow  will  but  join  you  together  as 
they  join  wainscot;  then  one  of  you  will 
prove  a  shrunk  panel,  and  like  green  timber 
warp,  warp. 

Touchstone.  [ Aside.]  I  am  not  in  the 
mind  but  I  were  better  to  be  married  of  him 
than  of  another :  for  he  is  not  like  to  marry 
me  well ;  and  not  being  well  married,  it  will 
be  a  good  excuse  for  me  hereafter  to  leave 
my  wife. 

Jaques.    Go  thou  with  me,  and  let  me 
counsel  thee. 

77 


Touchstone.    Come,  sweet  Audrey : 

We  must  be  married,  or  we  must  live  in 

bawdry. 

Farewell,  good  Master  Oliver :  not,  — 
O  sweet  Oliver, 
O  brave  Oliver, 
Leave  me  not  behind  thee : 
but,— 

Wind  away, 
Begone,  I  say, 
I  will  not  to  wedding  with  thee. 

Exeunt     JAQUES,    TOUCHSTONE,    and 

AUDREY. 

Sir  Oliver.  'T  is  no  matter :  ne'er  a  fan- 
tastical knave  of  them  all  shall  flout  me  out 
of  my  calling.  Exit 


Enter  ROSALIND  andCEUA. 

Rosalind.  Never  talk  to  me ;  I  will  weep. 
Celia.  Do,  I  prithee;  but  yet  have  the 
grace  to  consider  that  tears  do  not  become 
a  man. 

Rosalind.  But  have  I  not  cause  to  weep  ? 
Celia.  As  good  cause  as  one  would  desire ; 
therefore  weep. 

Rosalind.  His  very  hair  is  of  the  dissem- 
bling colour. 

Celia.  Something  browner  than  Judas's : 
marry,  his  kisses  are  Judas's  own  children. 

78 


Rosalind.    P  faith,  his  hair  is  of  a  good 
colour. 

Celia.    An  excellent  colour :  your  chestnut 
was  ever  the  only  colour. 
Rosalind.    And  his  kissing  is  as  full  of  sanc- 
tity as  the  touch  of  holy  bread. 
Celia.    He  hath  bought  a  pair  of  cast  lips 
of  Diana;  a  nun  of    winter's  sisterhood 
kisses  not  more  religiously ;  the  very  ice  of 
chastity  is  in  them. 

Rosalind.    But  why  did  he  swear  he  would 
come  this  morning,  and  comes  not  ? 
Celia.    Nay,  certainly,  there  is  no  truth  in 
him. 

Rosalind.     Do  you  think  so  ? 
Celt a.    Yes ;  I  think  he  is  not  a  pick-purse 
nor  a  horse-stealer ;  but  for  his  verity  in 
love,  I  do  think  him  as  concave  as  a  covered 
goblet  or  a  worm-eaten  nut. 
Rosalind.    Not  true  in  love  ? 
Celia.    Yes,  when  he  is  in ;  but  I  think  he 
is  not  in. 

Rosalind.    You   have  heard    him  swear 
downright  he  was. 

Celia.  'Was'  is  not  'is':  besides,  the 
oath  of  a  lover  is  no  stronger  than  the 
word  of  a  tapster ;  they  are  both  the  con- 
firmer  of  false  reckonings.  He  attends 
here  in  the  forest  on  the  Duke  your  father. 
Rosalind.  I  met  the  Duke  yesterday  and 
had  much  question  with  him:  he  asked 
me  of  what  parentage  I  was ;  I  told  him, 
of  as  good  as  he;  so  he  laughed  and  let 

79 


me  go.     But  what  talk  we  of  fathers,  when 
there  is  such  a  man  as  Orlando  ? 
Celia.    O,  that  's  a  brave  man  !  he  writes 
brave  verses,  speaks  brave  words,  swears 
brave  oaths  and  breaks  them  bravely,  quite 
traverse,  athwart  the  heart  of  his  lover  ;  as 
a  puisny  tilter,  that  spurs  his  horse  but  on 
one  side,  breaks  his  staff  like  a  noble  goose  : 
but  all  's  brave  that  youth  mounts  and  folly 
guides.     Who  comes  here  ? 
Enter  CORIN. 
Corin.    Mistress  and  master,  you  have  oft 

inquired 

After  the  shepherd  that  complained  of  love, 
Who  you  saw  sitting  by  me  on  the  turf, 
Praising  the  proud  disdainful  shepherdess 
That  was  his  mistress. 
Celia.  Well,  and  what  of  him  ? 

Conn.    If  you  will   see  a  pageant  truly 


Between  the  pale  complexion  of  true  love 
And  the  red  glow  of  scorn  and  proud  dis- 

dain, 

Go  hence  a  little  and  I  shall  conduct  you, 
If  you  will  mark  it. 

Rosalind.        O,  come,  let  us  remove  : 
The  sight  of  lovers  feedeth  those  in  love. 
Bring  us  to  this  sight,  and  you  shall  say 
1  11  prove  a  busy  actor  in  their  play. 

Exeunt 


80 


SCENE  K- ANOTHERPARTOFTHE  FOREST 


Enter  SlLVIUS  am/PHEBE. 

Sttvius.    Sweet  Phebe,  do  not  scorn  me; 

do  not,  Phebc ; 

Say  that  you  love  me  not,  but  say  not  so 
In  bitterness.  The  common  executioner, 
Whose  heart  the  accustomed  sight  of  death 

makes  hard, 

Falls  not  the  axe  upon  the  humbled  neck 
But  first  begs  pardon :  will  you  sterner  be 
Than  he  that  dies  and  lives  by  bloody  drops? 

Enter  ROSALIND,  CELIA,  and  CORIN, 
behind. 

Phebe.    I  would  not  be  thy  executioner : 
I  fly  thee,  for  I  would  not  injure  thee* 
Thou  tell'st  me  there  is  murder  in  mine  eye : 
T  is  pretty,  sure,  and  very  probable, 
That  eyes,  that  are  the  frail'st  and  softest 

things, 

Who  shut  their  coward  gates  on  atomies, 
Should  be  calPd  tyrants,  butchers,  mur- 
derers ! 

Now  I  do  frown  on  thee  with  all  my  heart ; 
And  if  mine  eyes  can  wound,  now  let  them 

kill  thee: 
Now  counterfeit  to  swoon ;  why  now  fall 

down; 
Or  if  thou  canst  not,  O,  for  shame,  for 

shame, 
Lie  not,  to  say  mine  eyes  are  murderers  I 

6  8) 


Now  show  the  wound  mine  eye  hath  made 

in  thee : 

Scratch  thee  but  with  a  pin,  and  there  re- 
mains 

Some  scar  of  it;  lean  but  upon  a  rush, 
The  cicatrice  and  capable  impressure 
Thy  palm  some  moment  keeps ;  but  now 

mine  eyes, 

Which  I  have  darted  at  thee,  hurt  thee  not, 
Nor,  I  am  sure,  there  is  no  force  in  eyes 
That  can  do  hurt. 
Silvius.  O  dear  Phebe, 

\i \  If  ever,  —  as  that  ever  may  be  near,  — 
You  meet  in  some  fresh  cheek  the  power 

of  fancy, 

Then  shall  you  know  the  wounds  invisible 
That  love's  keen  arrows  make. 
Phebe.  But  till  that  time 

Come  not  thou  near  me:  and  when  that 

time  comes, 

Afflict  me  with  thy  mocks,  pity  me  not ; 
As  till  that  time  I  shall  not  pity  thee. 
Rosalind.    And  why,  I  pray  you  ?    Who 

might  be  your  mother, 
That  you  insult,  exult,  and  all  at  once, 
Over  the  wretched  ?    What  though    you 

have  no  beauty, — 

As,  by  my  faith,  I  see  no  more  in  you 
Than  without  candle  may  go  dark  to  bed,  — 
Must  you  be  therefore  proud  and  pitiless  ? 
Why,  what   means  this?    Why  do  you 

look  on  me  ? 
I  see  no  more  in  you  than  in  the  ordinary 

82 


Of  nature's  sale-work.     'Od's  my  little  life, 
I  think  she  means  to  tangle  my  eyes  too ! 
No,  faith,  proud  mistress,  hope  not  after  it : 
T  is  not  your  inky  brows,  your  black  silk 

hair, 
Your  bugle  eyeballs,  nor  your  cheek  of 

cream, 

That  can  entame  my  spirits  to  your  worship. 
You  foolish  shepherd,  wherefore  do  you 

follow  her, 
Like  foggy  south,  puffing  with  wind  and 

rain? 

^1  You  are  a  thousand  times  a  properer  man 
Than  she  a  woman :  't  is  such  fools  as  you 
That  makes  the  world  full  of  ill-favour'd 

children : 

T  is  not  her  glass,  but  you,  that  flatters  her ; 
And  out  of  you  she  sees  herself  more  proper 
Than  any  of  her  lineaments  can  show  her. 
But,  mistress,  know  yourself;  down  on 

your  knees, 
And  thank  heaven,  fasting,  for  a  good  man's 

love: 

For  I  must  tell  you  friendly  in  your  ear, 
Sell  when  you  can:  you  are  not  for  all 

markets : 

Cry  the  man  mercy;  love  him;  take  his  offer: 
Foul  is  most  foul,  being  foul  to  be  a  scoffer. 
So  take  her  to  thee,  shepherd :  fare  you  well. 
Phebe.  Sweet  youth,  I  pray  you,  chide  a 

year  together : 
I  had  rather  hear  you  chide  than  this  man 

woo. 

B 


Rosalind.  He's  fallen  in  love  with  your 
foulness  and  she'll  fall  in  love  with  my 
anger.  If  it  be  so,  as  fast  as  she  answers 
thee  with  frowning  looks,  I'll  sauce  her 
with  bitter  words.  Why  look  you  so  upon 
me? 

Phebe.    For  no  ill  will  I  bear  you. 
Rosalind.    I  pray  you,  do  not  fall  in  love 

with  me, 

For  I  am  falser  than  vows  made  in  wine : 
Besides,  I  like  you  not.    If  you  will  know 

my  house, 

T  is  at  the  tuft  of  olives  here  hard  by. 
Will  you  go,  sister  ?    Shepherd,  ply  her 

hard. 
Come,  sister.    Shepherdess,  look  on  him 

better, 
And  be  not  proud:  though  all  the  world 

could  see, 

None  could  be  so  abused  in  sight  as  he. 
Come,  to  our  flock.       Exeunt  ROSALIND, 
CELIAam/CORIN 
Phebe.    Dead  shepherd,  now  I  find  thy  saw 

of  might, 
'Who  ever  loved  that  loved  not  at  first 

sight?' 

Silvius.    Sweet  Phebe,  — 
Phebe.         Ha,  what  sa/st  thou,  Silvius  ? 
Silvius.    Sweet  Phebe,  pity  me. 
Phebe.    Why,  I  am  sorry  for  thee,  gentle 

Silvius. 
Silvius.    Wherever  sorrow  is,  relief  would 

be: 

84 


If  you  do  sorrow  at  my  grief  in  love, 
By  giving  love  your  sorrow  and  my  grief 
Were  both  extermined, 
Phebe.    Thou  hast  my  love:  is  not  that 

neighbourly  ? 

Silvias.    I  would  have  you, 
Phebe.          Why,  that  were  covetousness. 
Silvius,  the  time  was  that  I  hated  thee, 
And  yet  it  is  not  that  I  bear  thee  love ; 
But  since  that  thou  canst  talk  of  love  so 

well, 
Thy  company,  which  erst  was  irksome  to 

me, 

I  will  endure,  and  I  '11  employ  thee  too : 
But  do  not  look  for  further  recompense 
Than  thine  own  gladness  that  thou  art 

employed. 

Silvius.    So  holy  and  so  perfect  is  my  love, 
And  I  in  such  a  poverty  of  grace, 
That  I  shall  think  it  a  most  plenteous  crop 
To  glean  the  broken  ears  after  the  man 
That  the  main  harvest  reaps:  loose  now 

and  then 

A  scattered  smile,  and  that  I  '11  live  upon, 
Phebe.    Know'st  thou  the  youth  that  spoke 

to  me  erewhile  ? 
Silvius.    Not  very  well,  but  I  have  met 

him  oft; 
And  he  hath  bought  the  cottage  and  the 

bounds 

That  the  old  carlot  once  was  master  of. 
Phebe.  Think  not  I  love  him,  though  I 

ask  for  him ; 

85 


'T  is  but  a  peevish  boy ;  yet  he  talks  well ; 
But  what  care  I  for  words  ?  yet  words  do 

well 
When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those 

that  hear. 

It  is  a  pretty  youth :  not  very  pretty : 
But,  sure,  he's  proud,  and  yet  his  pride 

becomes  him : 
He  '11  make  a  proper  man :  the  best  thing 

in  him 
Is  his  complexion;    and  faster  than  his 

tongue 

Did  make  offence  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 
He  is  not  very  tall ;  yet  for  his  years  he 's 

tall: 

His  leg  is  but  so  so ;  and  yet 't  is  well : 
There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip, 
A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 
Than  that  mix'd  in  his  cheek ;  't  was  just 

the  difference 
Betwixt   the   constant  red    and    mingled 

damask. 
There  be  some  women,  Silvius,  had  they 

mark'd  him 

In  parcels  as  I  did,  would  have  gone  near 
To  fall  in  love  with  him :  but,  for  my  part, 
I  love  him  not  nor  hate  him  not ;  and  yet 
I  have  more  cause  to  hate  him  than  to  love 

him: 

For  what  had  he  to  do  to  chide  at  me  ? 
He  said  mine  eyes  were  black  and  my  hair 

black; 
And,  now  I  am  remembered,  scorn'd  at  me : 

86 


I  marvel  why  I  answer'd  not  again : 
But  that's  all  one;  omittance  is  no  quit- 
tance. 

I  '11  write  to  him  a  very  taunting  letter, 
And  thou  shalt  bear  it :  wilt  thou,  Silvius  ? 
Silvias.    Phebe,  with  all  my  heart. 
Phebe.  I  '11  write  it  straight ; 

The  matter 's  in  my  head  and  in  my  heart : 
I  will  be  bitter  with  him  and  passing  short. 
Go  with  me,  Silvius.  Exeunt 


87 


Enter  ROSALIND,  CELIA,  and  JAQUES. 


Jaques.    I  prithee,  pretty  youth,  let  me  be 

better  acquainted  with  thee. 

Rosalind.     They  say  you  are  a  melancholy 

fellow. 

Jaques.    I  am  so  ;  I  do  love  it  better  than 

laughing. 

Rosalind.     Those  that  are  in  extremity  of 

either  are  abominable  fellows,  and  betray 

themselves  to  every  modern  censure  worse 

than  drunkards. 

Jaques.    Why,  't  is  good  to  be  sad  and  say 

nothing. 

Rosalind.    Why  then,  'tis  good  to  be  a 

post. 

9J 


91 


Jaques.  I  have  neither  the  scholar's  mel- 
ancholy, which  is  emulation;  nor  the 
musician's,  which  is  fantastical ;  nor  the 
courtier's,  which  is  proud;  nor  the  sol- 
dier's, which  is  ambitious ;  nor  the  lawyer's, 
which  is  politic ;  nor  the  lady's,  which  is 
nice ;  nor  the  lover's,  which  is  all  these : 
but  it  is  a  melancholy  of  mine  own,  com- 
pounded of  many  simples,  extracted  from 
many  objects;  and  indeed  the  sundry  con- 
templation of  my  travels,  in  which  my 
often  rumination  wraps  me  in  a  most 
humorous  sadness* 

Rosalind.  A  traveller  1  By  my  faith,  you 
have  great  reason  to  be  sad :  I  fear  you 
have  sold  your  own  lands  to  see  other 
men's;  then,  to  have  seen  much,  and  to 
have  nothing,  is  to  have  rich  eyes  and  poor 
hands. 

Jaques.  Yes,  I  have  gained  my  experience. 
Rosalind.  And  your  experience  makes 
you  sad :  I  had  rather  have  a  fool  to  make 
me  merry  than  experience  to  make  me  sad ; 
and  to  travel  for  it  too  1 
Enter  ORLANDO. 

Orlando.  Good-day  and  happiness,  dear 
Rosalind! 

Jaques.  Nay,  then,  God  buy  you,  an  you 
talk  in  blank  verse.  Exit 

Rosalind.  Farewell,  Monsieur  Traveller : 
look  you  lisp  and  wear  strange  suits ;  dis- 
able all  the  benefits  of  your  own  country ; 
be  out  of  love  with  your  nativity  and  almost 

92 


chide  God  for  making  you  that  countenance 
you  are ;  or  I  will  scarce  think  you  have 
swam  in  a  gondola.  Why,  how  now,  Or- 
lando !  where  have  you  been  all  this  while  ? 
You  a  lover  1  An  you  serve  me  such 
another  trick,  never  come  in  my  sight  more. 
Orlando.  My  fair  Rosalind,  I  come  with- 
in an  hour  of  my  promise. 
Rosalind.  Break  an  hour's  promise  in 
love !  He  that  will  divide  a  minute  into  a 
thousand  parts,  and  break  but  a  part  of  the 
thousandth  part  of  a  minute  in  the  affairs  of 
love,  it  may  be  said  of  him  that  Cupid  hath 
clapped  him  o'  the  shoulder,  but  I  '11  warrant 
him  heart-whole. 

Orlando*    Pardon  me,  dear  Rosalind* 
Rosalind.     Nay,  an  you  be  so  tardy,  come 
no  more  in  my  sight :  I  had  as  lief  be  wooed 
of  a  snail. 

Orlando.    Of  a  snail  ? 
Rosalind.     Ay,  of  a  snail ;  for  though  he 
comes  slowly,  he  carries  his  house  on  his 
head;  a  better  jointure,  I  think,  than  you 
make  a  woman :  besides,  he  brings  his  des- 
tiny with  him, 
Orlando.    What 's  that  ? 
Rosalind.     Why,  horns,  which  such  as 
you  are  fain  to  be  beholding  to  your  wives 
for :  but  he  comes  armed  in  his  fortune  and 
prevents  the  slander  of  his  wife. 
Orlando.    Virtue  is  no  horn-maker;  and 
my  Rosalind  is  virtuous. 
Rosalind.     And  I  am  your  Rosalind. 

93 


Celia.    It  pleases  him  to  call  you  so ;  but  he 

hath  a  Rosalind  of  a  better  leer  than  you. 

Rosalind.    Come,  woo  me,  woo  me;  for 

now  I  am  in  a  holiday  humour  and  like 

enough  to  consent*    What  would  you  say 

to  me   now,  an  I  were  your  very  very 

Rosalind? 

Orlando.    I  would  kiss  before  I  spoke. 

Rosalind.    Nay,  you  were    better  speak 

first;  and  when  you  were  gravelled  for  lack 

of  matter,  you  might  take  occasion  to  kiss. 

Very  good  orators,  when  they  are  out,  they 

will  spit ;  and  for  lovers  lacking  —  God  warn 

us  1  —  matter,  the  cleanliest  shift  is  to  kiss. 

Orlando.    How  if  the  kiss  be  denied  ? 

Rosalind.     Then  she  puts  you  to  entreaty 

and  there  begins  new  matter. 

Orlando.    Who  could  be  out,  being  before 

his  beloved  mistress  ? 

Rosalind.     Marry,  that  should  you,  if  I 

were  your  mistress,  or  I  should  think  my 

honesty  ranker  than  my  wit. 

Orlando.    What,  of  my  suit  ? 

Rosalind.     Not  out  of  your  apparel,  and 

yet    out  of    your  suit.    Am  not  I   your 

Rosalind  ? 

Orlando.    I  take  some  joy  to  say  you  are, 

because  I  would  be  talking  of  her. 

Rosalind.    Well,  in  her  person,  I  say  I  will 

not  have  you. 

Orlando.    Then  in  mine  own  person  I  die. 

Rosalind.    No,  faith,  die  by  attorney.  The 

poor  world  is  almost  six  thousand  years 

94 


old,  and  in  all  this  time  there  was  not  any 
man  died  in  his  own  person,  videlicet,  in  a 
love-cause,  Troilus  had  his  brains  dashed 
out  with  a  Grecian  club ;  yet  he  did  what 
he  could  to  die  before,  and  he  is  one  of  the 
patterns  of  love.  Leander,  he  would  have 
lived  many  a  fair  year,  though  Hero  had 
turned  nun,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  hot 
midsummer  night;  for,  good  youth,  he 
went  but  forth  to  wash  him  in  the  Helles- 
pont and  being  taken  with  the  cramp  was 
drowned:  and  the  foolish  chroniclers  of 
that  age  found  it  was  'Hero  of  Sestos/ 
But  these  are  all  lies :  men  have  died  from 
time  to  time  and  worms  have  eaten  them, 
but  not  for  love.  *r 

Orlando.  I  would  not  have  my  right  Rosa- 
lind of  this  mind ;  for,  I  protest,  her  frown 
might  kill  me. 

Rosalind.     By  this  hand,  it  will  not  kill  a 
fly.    But  come,  now  I  will  be  your  Rosa- 
lind in  a  more  coming-on  disposition,  and 
ask  me  what  you  will,  I  will  grant  it. 
Orlando.    Then  love  me,  Rosalind. 
Rosalind.    Yes,  faith,  will  I,  Fridays  and 
Saturdays  and  all. 
Orlando.    And  wilt  thou  have  me  ? 
Rosalind.     Ay,  and  twenty  such. 
Orlando.     What  sayest  thou  ? 
Rosalind.     Are  you  not  good  ? 
Orlando.    I  hope  so. 

Rosalind.  Why  then,  can  one  desire  too 
much  of  a  good  thing  ?  Come,  sister,  you 

95 


m 

^Rte*1 


shall  be  the  priest  and  marry  us.  Give  me 
your  hand,  Orlando.  What  do  you  say, 
sister  ? 

Orlando.    Pray  thee,  marry  us. 
Celia.     I  cannot  say  the  words. 
Rosalind.    You  must  begin,  'Will  you, 
Orlando  —  ' 

Celia.    Go  to.    Will  you,  Orlando,  have 
to  wife  this  Rosalind  ? 
Orlando.    I  will. 
Rosalind.    Ay,  but  when  ? 
Orlando.    Why  now ;  as  fast  as  she  can 
marry  us* 

Rosalind.  Then  you  must  say  *  I  take  thee, 
Rosalind,  for  wife/ 

Orlando.    I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. 
Rosalind.    I  might  ask  you  for  your  com- 
mission; but  I  do  take  thee,  Orlando,  for 
my  husband :  there 's  a  girl  goes  before  the 
priest;    and  certainly  a  woman's  thought 
runs  before  her  actions. 
Orlando.    So  do  all  thoughts;  they  are 
winged. 

Rosalind.  Now  tell  me  how  long  you 
would  have  her  after  you  have  possessed 
her. 

Orlando.  For  ever  and  a  day. 
Rosalind.  Say '  a  day/  without  the 'ever/ 
No,  no,  Orlando;  men  are  April  when 
they  woo,  December  when  they  wed: 
maids  are  May  when  they  are  maids,  but 
the  sky  changes  when  they  are  wives. 
I  will  be  more  jealous  of  thee  than  a 

96 


Barbary  cock-pigeon  over  his  hen,  more 
clamorous  than  a  parrot  against  rain,  more 
new-fangled  than  an  ape,  more  giddy  in 
my  desires  than  a  monkey:  I  will  weep 
for  nothing,  like  Diana  in  the  fountain,  and 
I  will  do  that  when  you  are  disposed  to  be 
merry ;  I  will  laugh  like  a  hyen,  and  that 
when  thou  art  inclined  to  sleep. 
Orlando.     But  will  my  Rosalind  do  so  ? 
Rosalind.     By  my  life,  she  will  do  as  I  do. 
Orlando.    O,  but  she  is  wise. 
Rosalind.    Or  else  she  could  not  have  the 
wit  to  do  this :  the  wiser,  the  waywarder : 
make  the  doors  upon  a  woman's  wit  and  it 
will  out  at  the  casement;  shut  that  and 
'twill  out  at  the  key-hole;  stop  that,  'twill 
fly  with  the  smoke  out  at  the  chimney. 
Orlando.    A  man  that  had  a  wife  with  such 
a  wit,  he  might  say  '  Wit,  whither  wilt  ? ' 
Rosalind.    Nay,  you  might  keep  that  check 
for  it  till  you  met  your  wife's  wit  going  to 
your  neighbour's  bed. 
Orlando.    And  what  wit  could  wit  have 
to  excuse  that  ? 

Rosalind.  Marry,  to  say  she  came  to  seek 
you  there.  You  shall  never  take  her  with- 
out her  answer,  unless  you  take  her  without 
her  tongue.  O,  that  woman  that  cannot 
make  her  fault  her  husband's  occasion,  let 
her  never  nurse  her  child  herself,  for  she 
will  breed  it  like  a  fool ! 
Orlando.  For  these  two  hours,  Rosalind, 
I  will  leave  thee. 

7  97 


m 


Rosalind.  Alas,  dear  love,  I  cannot  lack 
thee  two  hours ! 

Orlando.  I  must  attend  the  Duke  at 
dinner :  by  two  o'clock  I  will  be  with  thee 
again, 

Rosalind.  Ay,  go  your  ways,  go  your 
ways ;  I  knew  what  you  would  prove :  my 
friends  told  me  as  much,  and  I  thought  no 
less:  that  flattering  tongue  of  yours  won 
me :  't  is  but  one  cast  away,  and  so,  come, 
death !  Two  o'clock  is  your  hour  ? 
Orlando.  Ay,  sweet  Rosalind. 
Rosalind.  By  my  troth,  and  in  good  earn- 
est, and  so  God  mend  me,  and  by  all  pretty 
oaths  that  are  not  dangerous,  if  you  break 
one  jot  of  your  promise  or  come  one  minute 
behind  your  hour,  I  will  think  you  the 
most  pathetical  break-promise,  and  the  most 
hollow  lover,  and  the  most  unworthy  of 
her  you  call  Rosalind,  that  may  be  chosen 
out  of  the  gross  band  of  the  unfaithful: 
therefore  beware  my  censure  and  keep  your 
promise. 

Orlando.    With  no  less  religion  than  if 
thou  wert  indeed  my  Rosalind :  so  adieu. 
Rosalind.    Well,  Time  is  the  old  justice 
that  examines  all  such  offenders,  and  let 
Time  try :  adieu.  Exit  ORLANDO. 

Celia.  You  have  simply  misused  our  sex 
in  your  love-prate:  we  must  have  your 
doublet  and  hose  plucked  over  your  head, 
and  show  the  world  what  the  bird  hath 
done  to  her  own  nest. 


Rosalind.  O  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little 
coz,  that  thou  didst  know  how  many  fathom 
deep  I  am  in  love!  But  it  cannot  be 
sounded  :  my  affection  hath  an  unknown 
bottom,  like  the  bay  of  Portugal, 
Celia.  Or  rather,  bottomless  ;  that  as  fast 
as  you  pour  affection  in,  it  runs  out. 
Rosalind.  No,  that  same  wicked  bastard  of 
Venus  that  was  begot  of  thought,  conceived 
of  spleen,  and  born  of  madness,  that  blind 
rascally  boy  that  abuses  every  one's  eyes  be- 
cause his  own  are  out,  let  him  be  judge  how 
deep  I  am  in  love.  Ill  tell  thee,  Aliena,  I 
cannot  be  out  of  the  sight  of  Orlando  :  I  '11 
go  find  a  shadow  and  sigh  till  he  come. 
Celia.  And  1  11  sleep.  Exeunt 


SCENE  ff-nm  FOREST 


Enter  JAQUES,  LORDS,  and  FORESTERS. 

Jaques.     Which    is    he   that    killed   the 

deer? 

A  Lord.     Sir,  it  was  I. 

Jaques.    Let's  present  him  to  the  Duke, 

like  a  Roman  conqueror  ;  and  it  would  do 

well  to  set  the  deer's  horns  upon  his  head, 

for  a  branch  of  victory.    Have  you  no  song, 

forester,  for  this  purpose  ? 

Forester.    Yes,  sir. 

Jaques.     Sing  it  :  't  is  no  matter  how  it  be 

in  tune,  so  it  make  noise  enough. 

99 


SONG. 


Forester.     What  shall  he  have  that  kill'd 

the  deer? 
His  leather  skin  and  horns  to  wear. 

Then  sing  him  home : 
The  rest  shall  bear  this  burden. 
Take  thou  no  scorn  to  wear  the  horn ; 
It  was  a  crest  ere  thou  wast  born : 
Thy  father's  father  wore  it, 
And  thy  father  bore  it : 
The  horn,  the  horn,  the  lusty  horn 
Is  not  a  thing  to  laugh  to  scorn. 

Exeunt 


SCENE  /ZT-THE  FOREST 


Enter  ROSALIND  and  CELIA. 

Rosalind.  How  say  you  now  ?  Is  it  not 
past  two  o'clock  ?  and  here  much  Orlando ! 
Celia.  I  warrant  you,  with  pure  love  and 
troubled  brain,  he  hath  ta'en  his  bow  and 
arrows  and  is  gone  forth  to  sleep*  Look, 
who  comes  here. 

Enter  SDLVIUS. 

Silvius.    My  errand  is  to  you,  fair  youth ; 
My  gentle  Phebe  bid  me  give  you  this : 
I  know  not  the  contents ;  but,  as  I  guess 
By  the  stern  brow  and  waspish  action 
Which  she  did  use  as  she  was  writing  of  it, 
It  bears  an  angry  tenour :  pardon  me ; 
I  am  but  as  a  guiltless  messenger, 
joo 


Rosalind.  Patience  herself  would  startle  at 
this  letter 

And  play  the  swaggerer ;  bear  this,  bear  all : 

She  says  I  am  not  fair,  that  I  lack  manners ; 

She  calls  me  proud,  and  that  she  could  not 
love  me, 

Were  man  as  rare  as  phoenix.  'Od  's  my 
will! 

Her  love  is  not  the  hare  that  I  do  hunt : 

Why  writes  she  so  to  me  ?  Well,  shepherd, 
well, 

This  is  a  letter  of  your  own  device. 

Silvias.  No,  I  protest,  I  know  not  the  con- 
tents: 

Phebe  did  write  it. 

Rosalind.          Come,  come,  you  are  a  fool, 

And  turn'd  into  the  extremity  of  love. 

I  saw  her  hand :  she  has  a  leathern  hand, 

A  freestone-coloured  hand ;  I  verily  did  think 

That  her  old  gloves  were  on,  but 't  was  her 
hands: 

She  has  a  huswife's  hand;  but  that's  no 
matter: 

I  say  she  never  did  invent  this  letter; 

This  is  a  man's  invention  and  his  hand. 

Silvius.    Sure,  it  is  hers. 

Rosalind.  Why,  'tis  a  boisterous  and  a 
cruel  style, 

A  style  for  challengers ;  why,  she  defies  me, 

Like  Turk  to  Christian:  women's  gentle 
brain 

Could  not  drop  forth  such  giant-rude  inven- 
tion, 

JOJ 


Such  Ethiope  words,  blacker  in  their  effect 

Than  in  their  countenance*    Will  you  hear 
the  letter? 

Silvius.    So  please  you,  for  I  never  heard  it 
yet; 

Yet  heard  too  much  of  Phebe's  cruelty. 

Rosalind.     She  Phebes  me :  mark  how  the 
tyrant  writes. 

[Reads]     Art  thou  god  to  shepherd  turned, 
That  a  maiden's  heart  hath  burn'd? 

Can  a  woman  rail  thus  ? 

Silvias.    Call  you  this  railing  ? 

Rosalind  [reads']. 

Why,  thy  godhead  laid  apart, 
Warr'st  thou  with  a  woman's  heart? 

Did  you  ever  hear  such  railing  ? 

Whiles  the  eye  of  man  did  woo  me, 
That  could  do  no  vengeance  to  me. 

Meaning  me  a  beast. 

If  the  scorn  of  your  bright  eyne 
Have  power  to  raise  such  love  in  mine, 
Alack,  in  me  what  strange  effect 
Would  they  work  in  mild  aspect  I 
Whiles  you  chide  me,  I  did  love ; 
How  then  might  your  prayers  move  I 
He  that  brings  this  love  to  thee 
Little  knows  this  love  in  me : 
And  by  him  seal  up  thy  mind ; 
Whether  that  thy  youth  and  kind 
Will  the  faithful  offer  take 
Of  me  and  all  that  I  can  make ; 
Or  else  by  him  my  love  deny, 
And  then  1 11  study  how  to  die. 
102 


Silvias.  Call  you  this  chiding  ? 
Celia.  Alas,  poor  shepherd ! 
Rosalind.  Do  you  pity  him?  no,  he  de- 
serves no  pity.  Wilt  thou  love  such  a  wo- 
man ?  What,  to  make  thee  an  instrument 
and  play  false  strains  upon  thee  1  not  to  be 
endured !  Well,  go  your  way  to  her,  for  I 
see  love  hath  made  thee  a  tame  snake,  and 
say  this  to  her :  that  if  she  love  me,  I  charge 
her  to  love  thee ;  if  she  will  not,  I  will  never 
have  her  unless  thou  entreat  for  her.  If 
you  be  a  true  lover,  hence,  and  not  a  word ; 
for  here  comes  more  company.  TV 

ExitSlLVIUS.    (I 
Enter  OLIVER. 

Oliver.    Good  morrow,  fair  ones :  pray  you, 

if  you  know, 

Where  in  the  purlieus  of  this  forest  stands 
A  sheep-cote  fenced  about  with  olive-trees? 
Celia.  West  of  this  place,  down  in  the 

neighbour  bottom : 

The  rank  of  osiers  by  the  murmuring  stream 
^eft  on  vour  "^t  hand  brings  you  to  the    &&    J 

place. 

But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself; 
There's  none  within. 
Oliver.    If  that  an  eye  may  profit  by  a 

tongue, 

Then  should  I  know  you  by  description; 
Such  garments  and  such  years :  *  The  boy 

is  fair, 

Of  female  favour,  and  bestows  himself 
Like  a  ripe  sister :  the  woman  low, 

J03 


And  browner  than  her  brother/    Are  not 

you 

The  owner  of  the  house  I  did  enquire  for  ? 
Celia.    It  is  no  boast,  being  ask*d,  to  say  we 

are. 
Other.    Orlando  doth  commend  him  to  you 

both, 

And  to  that  youth  he  calls  his  Rosalind 
He  sends  this  bloody  napkin.    Are  you  he  ? 
Rosalind.    lam:  what  must  we  understand 

by  this  ? 
Oliver.    Some  of  my  shame;  if  you  will 

know  of  me 
What  man  I  am,  and  how,  and  why,  and 

where 

This  handkercher  was  stain'd. 
Celia.  I  pray  you,  tell  it. 

Other.    When   last  the  young  Orlando 

parted  from  you 

He  left  a  promise  to  return  again 
Within  an  hour,  and  pacing  through  the 

forest, 

Chewing  the  food  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy, 
Lo,  what  befel !  he  threw  his  eye  aside, 
And  mark  what  object  did  present  itself : 
Under  an  oak,  whose  boughs  were  moss'd 

with  age 

And  high  top  bald  with  dry  antiquity, 
A  wretched  ragged  man,  o'ergrown  with 

hair, 

Lay  sleeping  on  his  back :  about  his  neck 
A  green  and  gilded  snake  had  wreathed 
itself, 

104 


Who  with  her  head  nimble  in  threats  ap- 

proach'd 

The  opening  of  his  mouth;  but  suddenly, 
Seeing  Orlando,  it  unlinkM  itself, 
And  with  indented  glides  did  slip  away 
Into  a  bush :  under  which  bush's  shade 
A  lioness,  with  udders  all  drawn  dry, 
Lay  couching,  head  on  ground,  with  catlike 

watch, 
When  that  the  sleeping  man  should  stir; 

for 'tis 

The  royal  disposition  of  that  beast 
To  prey  on  nothing  that  doth  seem  as  dead : 
This  seen,  Orlando  did  approach  the  man 
And  found  it  was  his  brother,  his  elder 

brother, 
Celia.    O,  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  that 

same  brother ; 

And  he  did  render  him  the  most  unnatural 
That  lived  amongst  men* 
Oliver,  And  well  he  might  so  do, 

For  well  I  know  he  was  unnatural. 
Rosalind.    But,  to  Orlando :  did  he  leave 

him  there, 

Food  to  the  suck'd  and  hungry  lioness  ? 
Oliver.    Twice  did  he  turn  his  back  and 

purposed  so ; 

But  kindness,  nobler  ever  than  revenge, 
And  nature,  stronger  than  his  just  occasion, 
Made  him  give  battle  to  the  lioness, 
Who  quickly  fell  before  him:   in  which 

hurtling 
From  miserable  slumber  I  awaked. 

105 


...... 


Celia.    Are  you  his  brother  ? 

Rosalind.  Was  *t  you  he  rescued  ? 

Celia.     Was 't  you  that  did  so  oft  contrive 

to  kill  him? 
Other.    'T  was  I ;  but 't  is  not  I:  I  do  not 

shame 

To  tell  you  what  I  was,  since  my  conversion 
So  sweetly  tastes,  being  the  thing  I  am. 
Rosalind.    But,  for  the  bloody  napkin? 
Oliver.  By  and  by. 

When  from  the  first  to  last  betwixt  us  two 
Tears  our  recountments  had  most  kindly 

bathed, 

As  how  I  came  into  that  desert  place ; 
In  brief,  he  led  me  to  the  gentle  Duke, 
Who  gave  me  fresh  array  and  entertainment, 
Committing  me  unto  my  brother's  love ; 
Who  led  me  instantly  unto  his  cave, 
There  stripped  himself,  and  here  upon  his 

arm 

The  lioness  had  torn  some  flesh  away, 
Which  all  this  while  had  bled ;  and  now  he 

fainted 

And  cried,  in  fainting,  upon  Rosalind. 
Brief,  I  recover'd  him,  bound  up  his  wound ; 
And,  after  some  small  space,  being  strong  at 

heart, 

He  sent  me  hither,  stranger  as  I  am, 
To  tell  this  story,  that  you  might  excuse 
His  broken  promise,  and  to  give  this  napkin, 
Dyed  in  his  blood,  unto  the  shepherd  youth 
That  he  in  sport  doth  call  his  Rosalind. 

ROSALIND  swoons. 

106 


Celia.  Why,  how  now,  Ganymede !  sweet 
Ganymede ! 

Oliver.  Many  will  swoon  when  they  do 
look  on  blood, 

Celia.  There  is  more  in  it.  Cousin 
Ganymede ! 

Other.    Look,  he  recovers. 

Rosalind.     I  would  I  were  at  home. 

Celia.  We  '11  lead  you  thither. 

I  pray  you,  will  you  take  him  by  the  arm  ? 

Oliver.    Be  of  good  cheer,  youth:  you  a 

man !  you  lack  a  man's  heart. 

Rosalind.     I  do  so,  I  confess  it.    Ah,  sirrah, 

a  body  would  think  this  was  well  counter- 
feited !  I  pray  you,  tell  your  brother  how 

well  I  counterfeited.    Heigh-ho  I 

Oliver.     This  was  not  counterfeit :  there  is 

too  great  testimony  in  your  complexion  that 

it  was  a  passion  of  earnest* 

Rosalind.    Counterfeit,  I  assure  you. 

Oliver.    Well  then,  take  a  good  heart  and 

counterfeit  to  be  a  man. 

Rosalind.     So  I  do :  but,  i'  faith,  I  should 

have  been  a  woman  by  right. 

Celia.    Come,  you  look  paler  and  paler: 

pray  you,  draw  homewards.    Good  sir,  go 

with  us. 

Oliver.  That  will  I,  for  I  must  bear  an- 
swer back 

How  you  excuse  my  brother,  Rosalind. 

Rosalind.     I  shall  devise  something:  but, 

I  pray  you,  commend  my  counterfeiting  to 

him.    Will  you  go?  Exeunt. 

J07 


'I  will  kill  thee  a  hundred  and  fifty  ways;  therefore  tremble,  depart/ 


Enter  TOUCHSTONE  and  AUDREY. 

Touchstone.    We  shall  find  a  time,  Audrey; 
patience,  gentle  Audrey. 
Audrey.    Faith,  the  priest  was  good  enough, 
for  all  the  old  gentleman's  saying. 
Touchstone.    A  most  wicked  Sir  Oliver, 
Audrey,  a  most  vile  Martext,    But,  Audrey, 
there  is  a  youth  here  in  the  forest  lays  claim 
to  you. 

Audrey.  Ay,  I  know  who  'tis:  he  hath 
no  interest  in  me  in  the  world :  here  comes 
the  man  you  mean. 

Touchstone.    It  is  meat  and  drink  to  me  to 

see  a  clown :  by  my  troth,  we  that  have 

m 


good  wits  have  much  to  answer  for ;  we 
shall  be  flouting ;  we  cannot  hold 
Enter  WILLIAM. 
William.    Good  even,  Audrey. 
Audrey.    God  ye  good  even,  William. 
William.    And  good  even  to  you,  sir. 
Touchstone.    Good    even,    gentle    friend. 
Cover  thy  head,  cover  thy  head;  nay,  pri- 
thee, be  covered.     How  old  are  you,  friend ? 
William.    Five  and  twenty,  sir. 
Touchstone.    A  ripe  age.    Is  thy  name 
William? 

William.    William,  sir. 
Touchstone.    A  fair  name.    Wast  born  i* 
the  forest  here  ? 

William.     Ay,  sir,  I  thank  God, 
Touchstone.    *  Thank  God ; '  a  good  an- 
swer.   Art  rich  ? 
William.    Faith,  sir,  so  so. 
Touchstone.    'So  so '  is  good,  very  good, 
very  excellent  good ;  and  yet  it  is  not ;  it  is 
but  so  so.    Art  thou  wise  ? 
William.    Ay,  sir,  I  have  a  pretty  wit. 
Touchstone.    Why,  thou  sayest  well.    I 
do  now  remember  a  saying, '  The  fool  doth 
think  he  is  wise,  but  the  wise  man  knows 
himself  to  be  a  fool/    The  heathen  philos- 
opher, when  he  had  a  desire  to  eat  a  grape, 
would  open  his  lips  when  he  put  it  into  his 
mouth ;  meaning  thereby  that  grapes  were 
made  to  eat  and  lips  to  open.     You  do  love 
this  maid? 
William.     I  do,  sir. 

U2 


Touchstone.    Give  me  your  hand*    Art 
thou  learned  ? 
William.    No,  sir. 

Touchstone.  Then  learn  this  of  me:  to 
have,  is  to  have ;  for  it  is  a  figure  in  rhet- 
oric that  drink,  being  poured  out  of  a  cup 
into  a  glass,  by  filling  the  one  doth  empty  the 
other;  for  all  your  writers  do  consent  that  ipse 
is  he :  now,  you  are  not  ipse,  for  I  am  he. 
William.  Which  he,  sir  ? 
Touchstone.  He,  sir,  that  must  marry  this 
woman.  Therefore,  you  clown,  abandon, 
— which  is  in  the  vulgar  leave,  —  the 
society,  —  which  in  the  boorish  is  company, 
—  of  this  female,  —  which  in  the  common 
is  woman ;  which  together  is,  abandon  the 
society  of  this  female,  or,  clown,  thou  per- 
ishest;  or,  to  thy  better  understanding, 
diest;  or,  to  wit,  I  kill  thee,  make  thee 
away,  translate  thy  life  into  death,  thy  lib- 
erty into  bondage:  I  will  deal  in  poison 
with  thee,  or  in  bastinado,  or  in  steel ;  I  will 
bandy  with  thee  in  faction ;  I  will  o'er-run 
thee  with  policy;  I  will  kill  thee  a  hundred  and 
and  fifty  ways :  therefore  tremble,  depart. 
Audrey.  Do,  good  William. 
William.  God  rest  you  merry,  sir. 

Exit. 
Enter  CORIN. 

Corin.     Our  master  and    mistress  seeks 
you ;  come,  away,  away ! 
Touchstone.     Trip, Audrey!  trip,  Audrey! 
I  attend,  I  attend.  Exeunt. 

113 


Enter  ORLANDO  and  OLIVER. 

Orlando.  Is 't  possible  that  on  so  little  ac- 
quaintance you  should  like  her  ?  that  but 
seeing  you  should  love  her?  and  loving 
woo?  and,  wooing,  she  should  grant?  and 
will  you  persever  to  enjoy  her  ? 
Oliver.  Neither  call  the  giddiness  of  it  in 
question,  the  poverty  of  her,  the  small  ac- 
quaintance, my  sudden  wooing,  nor  her 
sudden  consenting ;  but  say  with  me,  I  love 
Aliena;  say  with  her  that  she  loves  me; 
consent  with  both  that  we  may  enjoy  each 
other:  it  shall  be  to  your  good;  for  my 
father's  house  and  all  the  revenue  that  was 
old  Sir  Rowland's  will  I  estate  upon  you, 
and  here  live  and  die  a  shepherd, 
Orlando.  You  have  my  consent.  Let  your 
wedding  be  to-morrow:  thither  will  I  invite 
the  Duke  and  all 's  contented  followers.  Go 
you  and  prepare  Aliena ;  for  look  you,  here 
comes  my  Rosalind. 

Enter  ROSALIND. 

Rosalind.    God  save  you,  brother. 

Oliver.    And  you,  fair  sister.  Exit. 

Rosalind.     O,  my  dear  Orlando,  how  it 

grieves  me  to  see  thee  wear  thy  heart  in  a 

scarf! 

Orlando.    It  is  my  arm. 

114 


Rosalind.     I  thought  thy  heart  had  been 
wounded  with  the  claws  of  a  lion. 
Orlando.    Wounded  it  is,  but  with  the  eyes 
of  a  lady. 

Rosalind.  Did  your  brother  tell  you  how  I 
counterfeited  to  swoon  when  he  showed  me 
your  handkercher  ? 

Orlando.  Ay,  and  greater  wonders  than 
that. 

Rosalind.  O,  I  know  where  you  are :  nay, 
't  is  true :  there  was  never  any  thing  so  sud- 
den but  the  fight  of  two  rams,  and  Caesar's 
thrasonical  brag  of '  I  came,  saw,  and  over- 
came : '  for  your  brother  and  my  sister  no 
sooner  met  but  they  looked;  no  sooner 
looked  but  they  loved ;  no  sooner  loved  but 
they  sighed;  no  sooner  sighed  but  they 
asked  one  another  the  reason;  no  sooner 
knew  the  reason  but  they  sought  the  rem- 
edy :  and  in  these  degrees  have  they  made 
a  pair  of  stairs  to  marriage  which  they  will 
climb  incontinent,  or  else  be  incontinent 
before  marriage:  they  are  in  the  very  wrath 
of  love  and  they  will  together;  clubs  can- 
not part  them. 

Orlando.  They  shall  be  married  to-mor- 
row, and  I  will  bid  the  Duke  to  the  nuptial. 
But,  O,  how  bitter  a  thing  it  is  to  look  into 
happiness  through  another  man's  eyes !  By 
so  much  the  more  shall  I  to-morrow  be  at 
the  height  of  heart-heaviness,  by  how  much 
I  shall  think  my  brother  happy  in  having 
what  he  wishes  for. 

IfS 


Rosalind,  Why  then,  to-morrow  I  cannot 
serve  your  turn  for  Rosalind  ? 
Orlando.  I  can  live  no  longer  by  thinking. 
Rosalind,  I  will  weary  you  then  no  longer 
with  idle  talking.  Know  of  me  then,  for 
now  I  speak  to  some  purpose,  that  I  know 
you  are  a  gentleman  of  good  conceit:  I 
speak  not  this  that  you  should  bear  a  good 
opinion  of  my  knowledge,  insomuch  I  say 
I  know  you  are ;  neither  do  I  labour  for  a 
greater  esteem  than  may  in  some  little 
measure  draw  a  belief  from  you,  to  do 
yourself  good  and  not  to  grace  me.  Be- 
lieve then,  if  you  please,  that  I  can  do 
strange  things :  I  have,  since  I  was  three 
year  old,  conversed  with  a  magician,  most 
profound  in  his  art  and  yet  not  damnable. 
If  you  do  love  Rosalind  so  near  the  heart  as 
your  gesture  cries  it  out,  when  your  brother 
marries  Aliena,  shall  you  marry  her:  I 
know  into  what  straits  of  fortune  she  is 
driven ;  and  it  is  not  impossible  to  me,  if  it 
appear  not  inconvenient  to  you,  to  set  her 
before  your  eyes  to-morrow  human  as  she 
is  and  without  any  danger, 
Orlando.  Speakest  thou  in  sober  mean- 
ings? 

Rosalind.  By  my  life,  I  do ;  which  I  tender 
dearly,  though  I  say  I  am  a  magician. 
Therefore,  put  you  in  your  best  array ;  bid 
your  friends ;  for  if  you  will  be  married  to- 
morrow, you  shall ;  and  to  Rosalind,  if  you 
will. 

Itt 


Enter  SlLVIUS  am/ PHEBE, 

Look,  here  comes  a  lover  of  mine  and  a 

lover  of  hers. 
Phebe.    Youth,  you  have  done  me  much 

ungentleness. 

To  show  the  letter  that  I  writ  to  you. 
Rosalind.     I  care  not  if  I  have :  it  is  my 

study 

To  seem  despiteful  and  ungentle  to  you: 
You  are  there  followed  by  a  faithful  shep- 
herd; 
Look  upon  him,  love  him;  he  worships 

you, 
Phebe.    Good  shepherd,  tell    this    youth 

what 't  is  to  love. 
Sihius.     It  is  to  be  all  made  of  sighs  and 

tears; 

And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 
Phebe.     And  I  for  Ganymede. 
Orlando.    And  I  for  Rosalind* 
Rosalind.     And  I  for  no  woman, 
Sihius.    It  is  to  be  all  made  of  faith  and 

service ; 

And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 
Phebe.    And  I  for  Ganymede. 
Orlando.     And  I  for  Rosalind. 
Rosalind.     And  I  for  no  woman. 
Silvias.    It  is  to  be  all  made  of  fantasy, 
All  made  of  passion,  and  all  made  of  wishes ; 
All  adoration,  duty,  and  observance, 
All  humbleness,  all  patience,  and  impatience, 
All  purity,  all  trial,  all  observance; 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

JJ7 


Phebe.    And  so  am  I  for  Ganymede. 
Orlando.     And  so  am  I  for  Rosalind, 
Rosalind.     And  so  am  I  for  no  woman. 
Phebe.    If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me 

to  love  you  ? 
Silvias.    If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me 

to  love  you  ? 
Orlando.    If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me 

to  love  you  ? 

Rosalind.    Who  do  you  speak  to, '  Why 
blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? ' 
Orlando.     To  her  that  is  not  here,  nor  doth 

not  hear, 

Rosalind.  Pray  you,  no  more  of  this ;  't  is 
like  the  howling  of  Irish  wolves  against  the 
moon.  [To  Silvias.']  I  will  help  you,  if  I 
can:  [To  Phebe.~]  I  would  love  you,  if  I 
could.  To-morrow  meet  me  all  together. 
[To  Phebe.~]  I  will  marry  you,  if  ever  I 
marry  woman,  and  I  '11  be  married  to-mor- 
row :  [  To  Orlando J  I  will  satisfy  you,  if 
ever  I  satisfied  man,  and  you  shall  be  mar- 
ried to-morrow:  [To  Silvias.'}  I  will  con- 
tent you,  if  what  pleases  you  contents  you, 
and  you  shall  be  married  to-morrow,  [  To 
Orlando.]  As  you  love  Rosalind,  meet: 
[To  Silvias."]  as  you  love  Phebe,  meet: 
and  as  I  love  no  woman,  I  '11  meet.  So, 
fare  you  well :  I  have  left  you  commands. 
Silvias.  I'll  not  fail,  if  I  live. 
Phebe.  Nor  I. 
Orlando.  Nor  I. 

[Exeunt. 


Enter  TOUCHSTONE  and  AUDREY. 

Touchstone.     To-morrow    is   the    joyful 

day,    Audrey;    to-morrow    will    we    be 

married. 

Audrey.    I  do  desire  it  with  all  my  heart ; 

and  I  hope  it  is  no  dishonest  desire  to  desire 

to  be  a  woman  of  the  world.    Here  come 

two  of  the  banished  Duke's  pages. 

Enter  two  PAGES. 

First  Page.    Well  met,  honest  gentleman. 

Touchstone.    By    my    troth,    well    met. 

Come,  sit,  sit,  and  a  song. 

Second  Page.    We  are  for  you :  sit  i*  the 

middle. 

First  Page.    Shall  we  clap  into  't  roundly, 

without  hawking  or  spitting  or  saying  we 

are  hoarse,  which  are  the  only  prologues  to 

a  bad  voice  ? 

Second  Page.    V  faith,  i'  faith;  and  both 

in  a  tune,  like  two  gipsies  on  a  horse. 

SONG 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
That  o'er  the  green  corn-field  did  pass 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring 

time, 

When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding : 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

IJ9 


Pi 

mm 


Between  the  acres  of  the  rye, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie, 

In  spring  time,  &c. 

This  carol  they  began  that  hour, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino ; 

How  that  a  life  was  but  a  flower 
In  spring  time,  &c. 

And  therefore  take  the  present  time, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 
In  spring  time,  &c. 

Touchstone.    Truly,    young    gentlemen, 
though  there  was  no  great  matter  in  the 
ditty,  yet  the  note  was  very  untuneable. 
First  Page.    You  are  deceived,  sir:    we 
kept  time,  we  lost  not  our  time* 
Touchstone.    By  my  troth,  yes ;  I  count  it 
but  time  lost  to  hear  such  a  foolish  song. 
God  be  wi'  you;   and  God  mend  your 
voices !  Come,  Audrey.  Exeunt. 


Enter  DUKE  Senior,  AMIENS,  JAQUES, 

ORLANDO,  OLIVER,  am/CELiA. 

Duke  Senior.    Dost  thou  believe,  Orlando, 

that  the  boy, 

Can  do  all  this  that  he  hath  promised  ? 
Orlando.    I    sometimes   do    believe,    and 

sometimes  do  not ; 

J20 


As  those  that  fear  they  hope,  and  know 

they  fear. 

Enter  ROSALIND,  SlLVIUS,  and  PHEBE. 
Rosalind.    Patience  once  more,  whiles  our 

compact  is  urged : 

You  say,  if  I  bring  in  your  Rosalind, 
You  will  bestow  her  on  Orlando  here  ? 
Duke  Senior.    That  would  I,  had  I  king- 
doms to  give  with  her. 
Rosalind.    And  you  say,  you  will  have 

her,  when  I  bring  her. 
Orlando.    That  would  I,  were  I  of  all  king- 
doms king. 
Rosalind.    You  say,  you  11  marry  me,  if  I 

be  willing  ? 
Phebe.    That  will  I,  should  I  die  the  hour 

after. 
Rosalind.    But  if  you  do  refuse  to  marry 

me, 
You  11  give  yourself  to  this  most  faithful 

shepherd  ? 

Phebe.    So  is  the  bargain. 
Rosalind.    You    say,    that    you'll    have 

Phebe,  if  she  will? 
Sifoius.    Though  to  have  her  and  death 

were  both  one  thing. 
Rosalind.    I  have  promised  to  make  all 

this  matter  even. 
Keep  you  your  word,  O  Duke,  to  give  your 

daughter ; 

You  yours,  Orlando,  to  receive  his  daughter: 
( Keep  your  word,  Phebe,  that  you  'II  marry 

me, 

J2J 


Or  else  refusing  me,  to  wed  this  shepherd : 
Keep  your  word,  Silvius,  that  you  'II  marry 

her, 

If  she  refuse  me :  and  from  hence  I  go, 
To  make  these  doubts  all  even. 

[Exeunt  ROSALIND  and  CELIA. 
Duke   Senior.      I  do   remember    in  this 

shepherd  boy 
Some    lively    touches  of   my    daughter's 

favour. 
Orlando.    My  lord,  the  first  time  that  I 

ever  saw  him 
Methought  he    was    a    brother  to   your 

daughter : 

But,  my  good  lord,  this  boy  is  forest-born, 
And  hath  been  tutor'd  in  the  rudiments 
Of  many  desperate  studies  by  his  uncle, 
Whom  he  reports  to  be  a  great  magician, 
Obscured  in  the  circle  of  this  forest. 
Enter  TOUCHSTONE  and  AUDREY. 
Jaques.    There    is,    sure,    another    flood 
toward,  and  these  couples  are  coming  to 
the  ark.    Here  comes  a  pair  of  very  strange 
beasts,  which  in  all  tongues  are  called  fools. 
Touchstone.     Salutation  and  greeting  to 
you  all! 

Jaques.  Good  my  lord,  bid  him  welcome: 
this  is  the  motley-minded  gentleman  that  I 
have  so  often  met  in  the  forest :  he  hath  been 
a  courtier,  he  swears. 
Touchstone.  If  any  man  doubt  that,  let 
him  put  me  to  my  purgation.  I  have  trod 

a  measure;  I  have  flattered  a  lady;  I  have 
122 


been  politic  with  my  friend,  smooth  with 
mine  enemy ;  I  have  undone  three  tailors ; 
I  have  had  four  quarrels,  and  like  to  have 
fought  one. 

Jaques.     And  how  was  that  ta'en  up  ? 
Touchstone.    Faith,  we  met,  and  found  the 
quarrel  was  upon  the  seventh  cause. 
Jaques.     How  seventh  cause  ?    Good  my 
lord,  like  this  fellow. 
Duke  Senior.     I  like  him  very  well. 
Touchstone.     God  'ild  you,  sir ;   I  desire 
you  of  the  like.    I  press  in  here,  sir,  amongst 
the  rest  of  the  country  copulatives,  to  swear 
and  to  forswear;  according  as  marriage 
binds  and  blood  breaks :  a  poor  virgin,  sir, 
an  ill-favoured  thing,  sir,  but  mine  own ;  a 
poor  humour  of  mine,  sir,  to  take  that  that 
no  man  else  will :  rich  honesty  dwells  like 
a  miser,  sir,  in  a  poor  house ;  as  your  pearl 
in  your  foul  oyster. 

Duke  Senior.  By  my  faith,  he  is  very 
swift  and  sententious. 

Touchstone.     According  to  the  fool's  bolt, 
sir,  and  such  dulcet  diseases. 
Jaques.     But,  for  the  seventh  cause ;  how 
did  you  find  the  quarrel  on  the  seventh 
cause? 

Touchstone.  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  re- 
moved:— bear  your  body  more  seeming, 
Audrey:  —  as  thus,  sir.  I  did  dislike  the 
cut  of  a  certain  courtier's  beard :  he  sent  me 
word,  if  I  said  his  beard  was  not  cut  well, 
he  was  in  the  mind  it  was :  this  is  called  the 

123 


Retort  Courteous,  If  I  sent  him  word  again 
4  it  was  not  well  cut/  he  would  send  me 
word,  he  cut  it  to  please  himself:  this  is 
called  the  Quip  Modest.  If  again  4  it  was 
not  well  cut/  he  disabled  my  judgment :  this 
is  called  the  Reply  Churlish.  E  again  '  it 
was  not  well  cut/  he  would  answer,  I  spake 
not  true :  this  is  called  the  Reproof  Valiant. 
If  again  '  it  was  not  well  cut/  he  would  say, 
I  lie:  this  is  called  the  Countercheck  Quar- 
relsome :  and  so  to  the  Lie  Circumstantial 
and  the  Lie  Direct. 

Jaques.  And  how  oft  did  you  say  his  beard 
was  not  well  cut  ? 

Touchstone.  I  durst  go  no  further  than  the 
Lie  Circumstantial,  nor  he  durst  not  give 
me  the  Lie  Direct;  and  so  we  measured 
swords  and  parted, 

Jaques.  Can  you  nominate  in  order  now 
the  degrees  of  the  lie  ? 
Touchstone.  O  sir,  we  quarrel  in  print,  by 
the  book ;  as  you  have  books  for  good  man- 
ners :  I  will  name  you  the  degrees.  The 
first,  the  Retort  Courteous ;  the  second,  the 
Quip  Modest ;  the  third,  the  Reply  Churlish ; 
the  fourth,  the  Reproof  Valiant;  the  fifth,  the 
Countercheck  Quarrelsome ;  the  sixth,  the 
Lie  with  Grcumstance ;  the  seventh,  the  Lie 
Direct,  All  these  you  may  avoid  but  the 
Lie  Direct;  and  you  may  avoid  that  too, 
with  an  If,  I  knew  when  seven  justices 
could  not  take  up  a  quarrel,  but  when  the 
parties  were  met  themselves,  one  of  them 

124 


Enter  Hymen,  leading  Rosalind  in  woman's  clothes,  and  Celh 


thought  but  of  an  If,  as,  *  If  you  said  so,  then 
I  said  so ; '  and  they  shook  hands  and  swore 
brothers.  Your  If  is  the  only  peace-maker ; 
much  virtue  in  If. 

Jaques.     Is  not  this  a  rare  fellow,  my  lord? 
he's  as  good  at  any  thing  and  yet  a  fool. 
Duke  Senior.     He  uses  his  folly  like  a  stalk- 
ing-horse and  under  the  presentation  of  that 
he  shoots  his  wit. 

Enter  HYMEN,  ROSALIND,  and  CELIA. 
Still  Music. 

Hymen.     Then  is  there  mirth  in  heaven, 
When  earthly  things  made  even 

Atone  together. 

Good  Duke,  receive  thy  daughter : 
Hymen  from  heaven  brought  her, 

Yea,  brought  her  hither, 
That  thou  mightst  join  her  hand  with  his 
Whose  heart  within  his  bosom  is. 
Rosalind.     To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am 

yours. 

To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours. 
Duke  Senior.     If  there  be  truth  in  sight, 

you  are  my  daughter. 
Orlando.     If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are 

my  Rosalind. 
Pfiebe.    If  sight  and  shape  be  true, 

Why  then,  my  love  adieu ! 
Rosalind.     I  '11  have  no  father,  if  you  be  not 

he: 

I  '11  have  no  husband,  if  you  be  not  he : 
Nor  ne'er  wed  woman,  if  you  be  not  she. 

J25 


Hymen.     Peace,  ho !    I  bar  confusion : 
T  is  I  must  make  conclusion 

Of  these  most  strange  events : 
Here 's  eight  that  must  take  hands 
To  join  in  Hymen's  bands, 

If  truth  holds  true  contents. 

You  and  you  no  cross  shall  part : 

You  and  you  are  heart  in  heart : 

You  to  his  love  must  accord, 

Or  have  a  woman  to  your  lord : 

You  and  you  are  sure  together, 

As  the  winter  to  foul  weather. 

Whiles  a  wedlock-hymn  we  sing, 

Feed  yourselves  with  questioning ; 

That  reason  wonder  may  diminish, 

How  thus  we  met,  and  these  things  finish. 

SONG 
Wedding  is  great  Juno's  crown ; 

O  blessed  bond  of  board  and  bed ! 
T  is  Hymen  peoples  every  town ; 

High  wedlock  then  be  honoured : 
Honour,  high  honour,  and  renown, 
To  Hymen,  god  of  every  town ! 

Duke  Senior.    O  my  dear  niece,  welcome 

thou  art  to  me ! 

Even  daughter,  welcome,  in  no  less  degree. 
Phebe.    I  will  not  eat  my  word,  now  thou 

art  mine; 

Thy  faith  my  fancy  to  thee  doth  combine. 
Enter  JAQUES  DE  BOYS. 
Jaques  de  Boys.    Let  me  have  audience  for 

a  word  or  two : 

126 


M 


I  am  the  second  son  of  old  Sir  Rowland, 
That  bring  these  tidings  to  this  fair  as- 
sembly. 
Duke  Frederick,  hearing  how  that  every 

day 

Men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  this  forest, 
Addressed  a  mighty  power ;  which  were  on 

foot, 

In  his  own  conduct,  purposely  to  take 
His  brother  here  and  put  him  to  the  sword : 
And  to  the  skirts  of  this  wild  wood  he  came ; 
Where  meeting  with  an  old  religious  man, 
After  some  question  with  him,  was  con- 
verted 
Both  from  his  enterprise   and    from  the 

world ; 
His  crown  bequeathing  to    his  banish'd 

brother, 

And  all  their  lands  restored  to  them  again 
That  were  with  him  exiled.    This  to  be 

true, 

I  do  engage  my  life. 
Duke  Senior.    Welcome,  young  man ; 
Thou  offer'st  fairly  to  thy  brothers'  wed- 
ding: 

To  one  his  lands  withheld ;  and  to  the  other 
A  land  itself  at  large,  a  potent  dukedom. 
First,  in  this  forest  let  us  do  those  ends 
That  here  were  well  begun  and  well  begot : 
And  after,  every  of  this  happy  number, 
That  have  endured  shrewd  days  and  nights 

with  us, 
Shall  share  the  good  of  our  returned  fortune, 

J27 


mm- 


According  to  the  measure  of  their  states* 

Meantime,  forget  this  new-fallen  dignity, 

And  fall  into  our  rustic  revelry. 

Play,  music  I  And  you,  brides  and  bride- 
grooms all, 

With  measure  heap'd  in  joy,  to  the  meas- 
ures fall* 

Jaques.  Sir,  by  your  patience.  If  I  heard 
you  rightly, 

The  Duke  hath  put  on  a  religious  life 

And  thrown  into  neglect  the  pompous 
court? 

Jaques  de  Boys.    He  hath. 

Jaques.  To  him  will  I :  out  of  these  con- 
vertities 

There  is  much  matter  to  be  heard  and 
learn'd. 

[To  Duke  Senior.~\  You  to  your  former 
honour  I  bequeath ; 

Your  patience  and  your  virtue  well  de- 
serves it : 

[To  Orlando."]  You  to  a  love,  that  your 
true  faith  doth  merit : 

[To  Oliver.]  You  to  your  land,  and  love, 
and  great  allies : 

[To  SilviusJ]  You  to  a  long  and  well-de- 
served bed : 

[To  Touchstone."]  And  you  to  wrang- 
ling ;  for  thy  loving  voyage 

Is  but  for  two  months  victualled.  So,  to 
your  pleasures : 

I  am  for  other  than  for  dancing  measures. 

Duke  Senior.    Stay,  Jaques,  stay. 

128 


Jaques.    To  see  no  pastime  I :  what  you 

would  have 

I  11  stay  to  know  at  your  abandoned  cave. 

Exit. 
Duke  Senior.    Proceed,  proceed :  we  will 

begin  these  rites, 

As  we  do  trust  they  '11  end,  in  true  delights* 

[A  dance. 


Rosalind.  It  is  not  the  fashion  to  see  the 
lady  the  epilogue;  but  it  is  no  more  un- 
handsome than  to  see  the  lord  the  prologue. 
If  it  be  true  that  good  wine  needs  no  bush, 
't  is  true  that  a  good  play  needs  no  epilogue : 
yet  to  good  wine  they  do  use  good  bushes ; 
and  good  plays  prove  the  better  by  the  help 
of  good  epilogues.  What  a  case  am  I  in 
then,  that  am  neither  a  good  epilogue,  nor 
cannot  insinuate  with  you  in  the  behalf  of  a 
good  play!  I  am  not  furnished  like  a 
beggar,  therefore  to  beg  will  not  become 
me :  my  way  is  to  conjure  you ;  and  I  '11 
begin  with  the  women.  I  charge  you,  O 
women,  for  the  love  you  bear  to  men,  to 
like  as  much  of  this  play  as  please  you : 
and  I  charge  you,  O  men,  for  the  love  you 
bear  to  women,  —  as  I  perceive  by  your 
simpering,  none  of  you  hates  them,  —  that 
between  you  and  the  women  the  play  may 
please.  If  I  were  a  woman  I  would  kiss  as 

J29 


many  of  you  as  had  beards  that  pleased  me, 
complexions  that  liked  me  and  breaths  that 
I  defied  not :  and,  I  am  sure,  as  many  as 
have  good  beards  or  good  faces  or  sweet 
breaths  will,  for  my  kind  offer,  when  I  make 
curtsy,  bid  me  farewell, 

Exeunt 


130 


LJ  L_ 


"  '    ' 


C   ,     S   .       V  /  A/  c 


«&»* 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL 


A    000027499    3 
«^~7     . 


!r\\W  (y 


